Vignettes from the Harem #6: Banana

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Harem inductee 7:

Banana

Inducted: February 2016

Banana sat and looked across at Peach. She was really cute, and it was easy to see why she was the Master’s favourite. Like her, Peach was naked save for her golden chastity belt and jewellery. Like her, Peach’s arms were held behind her body in the elegant, yet difficult bondage position known as “reverse prayer”. Like her, this caused Peach to thrust out her obviously fake bosom as if presenting it for approval. Both girls had only been trained in reverse prayer a month earlier; before that it had been monogloves. They were both still finding it difficult and, like her, Peach squirmed somewhat, although Banana knew that this was as much to do with the large plug in her bottom as the arm bondage.

Like her, Peach found the butt plugs difficult, particularly each time the old one was swapped for a slightly larger model.

Peach wasn’t just cute though, she was also a lovely person, which is why Banana was glad that she had been as her companion. Unlike her, Peach hadn’t been subjected to induced puberphonia, so when they chatted, aside from the slight slurring caused by her tongue piercings, she sounded as she had done before she was Peach.

Banana, on the other hand, was glad of her voice modifications. They helped enforce her new identity as a harem girl in the Fruits Basket.

Like all the pieces of fruit in the basket, she found it hard to comprehend just how her life had changed in the six months since she had first met the Master. That had been at a cricket match in Jo’burg. The Proteas had been playing England he had been in the crowd. For some reason, he had been transfixed by Banana – not that she was known by that name then – and, a few days later, masked men had broken into her house and… well, once the chloroform mask was put over her face, she remembered no more.

She woke up in a hospital. She was tied to a bed and people in white scrubs were operating on her. When they saw that she was awake, they injected her with something and her world went black again. This happened several times, but in-between those wakings, her dreams had been surreal and disturbing.

Almost as surreal and disturbing as the world that she found herself in when she awoke.

Like the other pieces of fruit in the basket, when she awoke, she found herself with a new name and purpose in life. She found herself blessed with a spherical pair of breasts and minus any hair from the neck down. She found her body adorned with jewellery and her arms restrained. She found her voice to be squeaky like a twelve-year-old girl’s and her private parts locked away in a golden chastity belt.

And she found herself being prepared for a night with her new Master.

That first night she was petrified. She resisted and fought, but since she was chained down to the bed face-down, it made no different. Her rear hole was lubed thoroughly and her Master positioned himself behind her and then slowly, gently, yet firmly, pushed himself in. Never before in her life had she felt so mastered, so truly conquered and defeated.

After he had finished, he unchained her and held her in his arms. Her fight was all gone and instead, she welcomed the loving warmth. A week later when she was called to his bed again, although scared, she did not resist and even found some pleasure in the act.

By blanking out all that she had been and thinking only of her duties now, she slowly began to accept her new reality. The days spent veiled in her hot and heavy burqa seemed natural – why should she not be veiled when strange men are about? – and the fact that she had not had any use of her arms since her arrival seemed normal – what did she need them for anyway? She was no longer what she had been, active and free, and instead was a decorative ornament, another tasty piece of fruit for the bowl, ready for her Master to take a bit out of whenever He chose.

And indeed, she now began to enjoy their sessions together and, even though he never undid her arms, he would now unfasten her chastity belt which caused her great joy, particularly when he cradled her in his arms as the morning sun rose over the lush valley.

But having Peach, her Master’s only wife, as her special friend, made things even better. Here was someone that she could share her secrets with (well, some of them…) and talk about, and lay her head against and cradle with her lap. Oh, how she would have loved to do more, to be able to express her love for that girl in the most natural way possible, but it was not to be. Still, she did have the next best thing.

Two weeks ago, their Master had decided to invite her to His bed along with His wife. For a whole heavenly evening, she lay there on the silken sheets with the two people that she loved most in the world. Of course, it wasn’t perfect: she would play lower girl and lie under the sheet, her Master’s tool in her mouth whilst Peach lay atop, kissing him while she sucked away until he erupted down her throat. But they were together, and in the post-coital bliss, despite her own immense, painful frustration, she could rest her head on Peach’s ample bottom and breath in her scent.

And that first glorious night had been repeated two days later and then again and then again.

And tonight, Ahmed had told them that they had been called to His chamber together once more.

Peach leaned over and kissed her dear friend in excitement, a kiss that Banana eagerly returned, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths until their locked-away private parts ached with longing.


John Cobbler lay panting as he surveyed his seed splashed all over the impressive backside of his only wife. Peach groaned with the effort before collapsing onto the bed while Banana stopped rubbing her gloriously-fake breasts all over his face. It had been a fantastic bout.

Once they had all recovered though, he decided to move onto the real treat for the evening: the denouement. “Peach, thank you so much for that; there is truly no bottom on the planet that can match yours.”

“It is always an honour when you use me anally,” she replied dutifully.

“Perhaps so, but I suspect that whilst I am fully spent, you are perhaps not totally fulfilled…?”

“My needs are of no concern, Master, I…”

“Nonsense! You are my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my son! Of course your needs matter! And Banana here, you too have pleased me greatly. It is six months to the day since you arrived in the Fruits Basket, and you have adapted well even though, for you, the adaptation was all the harder.”

“Master, thank you for the praise but…”

“Shh, Banana! You need not say it! Peach here is unfulfilled, and so I have decided to unlock her belt and allow her release.”

“Master, I should be honoured to use my tongue to bring Peach to fulfilment and…”

“Nonsense! You too are greatly frustrated! You haven’t been allowed a climax since your arrival here! I shall unlock your belt and you can bring each other to climax!”

“Master, unlock my belt! But… no… Master, you know it is not possible, I cannot…”

“Banana, this is an order!”

And with a smile, he unlocked Peach’s belt to reveal her wet and waiting slit, before then turning to Banana and unlocking, hers.

And when the metal was taken away, her rampant cock sprung up, ready to enter that place that it had dreamed about for so long.


The following day in the garden, Peach did not lean her head against Banana’s shoulder like she usually did.

And when it was time for them to be together, she said that she was ill and went to bed.

And then night the Master called for Lemon.

But the following evening, Peach did appear in their private quarter and sat next to her friend. For ten full minutes they did not speak, but when Banana began to sob quietly, Peach leaned into her and whispered quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

So she told her. She told her how she had been a man, a straight man, a man who had never wanted to be anything but a man. But then one day, whilst at a cricket match, another man had bumped into him and spilt his beer. The man had mumbled an apology, but he had shoved him and told him to be a bit more fucking careful. That other man was their Master. Three days later he was in hospital.

And when he awoke again in the harem, he was a she, with breasts, hormone treatment and a girlish voice. The only remainder of her former maleness left was her cock, now forever imprisoned within a chastity belt.

“Hence the name ‘Banana’,” Peach had said.

“Hence the name ‘Banana’,” she had agreed.

And then Peach had nodded slowly and replied, “And whilst all this is a shock to me, as it was when our Master unlocked your she-cock last night, I know that it was not of your choosing. Can we still be friends?”

And Banana then dissolved into very girlish tears and buried her head in the bosom of her best friend.

Vignettes from the Harem #5: Raspberry

Vignettes from the Harem

Harem inductee 5:

Raspberry

Inducted: September 2014

Lemon may have been the first ex that John Cobbler thought of when he was establishing his harem but, unfortunately, she was not the only one. The sad reality is that a man of John Cobbler’s calibre can accumulate rather a number of ex-partners during his lifetime as most women are totally unsuited to living with a man of his complexity, intelligence and general spiritual and emotional levels.

Or at least, that’s how John Cobbler sees things.

And whilst Lemon may have been foremost in his high-functioning and unique mind when he was setting up the Fruits Basket, she was not the only ex who had scarred him, nor was she even the one who hurt him the most.

The question might be asked therefore, is that why did John go for Lemon first? Well, the truth is that, John, intellectual and genius that he is (in his own mind) realised that one is unlikely to get things perfectly right the first time around. It is always good to have a trial run and so a trial run Lemon was, a delicious hors d’oeuvre before the even tastier main course.

And revenge is a dish best served cold.

Plus, there was also the fact that Jenny Bailey was a lot further back in time and John did not have a clue where or what she was doing these days. So, for almost a year, he waited, enjoying Lemon’s predicaments to the full and getting the most out of her payback, whilst also starting to collect his other girls.

But now, with the prospect of two full months back home while he enjoyed the England cricket team play India in a five-match series and four pieces of fruit already nestled in the basket, he contemplated adding a fifth.

The one that he most wanted to savour.

Jenny Bailey had been one of the most sought-after girls at Trentham Road High School. She had been a vision of schoolgirl perfection, her long legs emerging from the pleats of her navy uniform skirt, her long golden mane cascading down her back and her blue eyes sparkling in the strip lighting of the maths class. She was a schoolboy’s wet dream.

And, at the time, John Cobbler was a schoolboy.

He salivated over her in Double History and longed for her during Art. He enjoyed watching her bend over her work during CDT, but most of all he loved watching her run and jump in the gym during Gymnastics.

Jenny, on the other hand, never noticed John.

Until one day when, to his surprise, she came over to him, stroked his shoulder, and asked him how he was. She then sat close to him, put her hand on his thigh (only inches away from his raging erection) and asked if he fancied meeting up with her after school.

How could a guy say no?

So, he went to the assigned place (the copse of trees near the railway station) and there she was, like a forest nymph, waiting for him. She approached him slowly and seductively, put her arms around his neck and then kissed him tenderly. And then, when she withdrew, she whispered in his ear, “Would you like more, big boy?”

Her hand was on his crotch, so she knew that he did.

He nodded.

“Kneel down then and kiss me down there. Then we’ll do it.”

He knelt and she lifted up her skirt. To his amazement and delight, she was wearing no panties and he could see… everything!

He moved his head in but she tapped him on the cheek and said, “No. Close your eyes and I’ll show you where.” Dutifully he closed his eyes, felt the warmth of her skin drawing near and then….

Frrrrappp!

She farted in his face! Whilst his eyes had been closed, she had turned around, presented her arse to his nose and let rip. It stank, but that was not the worst of it.

No, the worst was the laughter of all his peers who were gathered around, filming his humiliation on their phones.

So now you know why John needed to make this one absolutely perfect.


Tracking down Jenny Bailey was easier than he’d thought it would be, and when Yuri showed him the photos that he’d taken of her whilst out shopping, John was shocked. She had really let herself go! Fat and lanky-haired, with heavy make-up, distasteful tattoos and a fag in her mouth. Ugh! Jenny Bailey was queen of nowhere these days; she wouldn’t even make duchess.

It was therefore his job to redeem her.

“Living in a council house on benefits, mainly off microwave meals. Smokes, drinks heavily and has a minor weed habit. Also has a steady stream of partners. Got rid of the last one when he smacked her. Are you sure you want this one, Mr. Cobbler? I can find you much better candidates…”

“Oh no, I’m having her, Yuri. I have a conscience after all, and there is a girl that needs redemption, a second-chance in life.”

“You can say that again. Fair enough, we’ll go in tomorrow night; I’ve already introduced myself to her in the pub. She thinks my name is Kev and I like her tats.”

“Good work. Bring her straight to the facility. She will be having a lot of work done…”

A year and three months later…

John Cobbler sits looking through the latticework screen at the five exquisite ladies ensconced in his harem. He can’t see them of course, since they are all wearing their gorgeous embroidered burqas, but he knows who each one is from the colour: Lemon, Melon, Peach, Apple and Pear. His five special girls. Unbeknownst to them, he takes out his camera and snaps a picture: his five lovelies, his entire collection, gathered together to celebrate the special day of his marriage (not that any of them were aware of it, including the bride). Later that photograph will adorn one of the walls of the Fruits Basket.

But then his face clouds slightly. For this is not the entirety of his harem; there is one piece of fruit that is not there in the basket… and the photograph. Turning away from his lovelies, he puts the camera down and walks over to the large cupboard at the foot of his bed. Then he opens the one-way mirrored glass door using the little key that he keeps on a chain around his neck along with the keys for all his other girls’ restraints, fits it in the lock, turns it in the door and opens it wide to reveal Raspberry.

Or at least, Raspberry’s head.

One of John Cobbler’s favourite pastimes, when not enjoying the fruits in his basket, is to read innovative and stimulating erotica on the internet. For obvious reasons, he enjoys stories centred around women being restrained, dominated and modified. And, when designing Raspberry, he decided to take his inspiration from some of the best of them.

Her name, of course, comes from the humiliation that she once, unwisely, submitted her now Lord and Master to. And to reflect her new moniker, she wears a costume in deep, pinky red, like the colour of a raspberry. And, continuing the parallels, it is also soft and slightly furry, being made of a velveteen material that is pleasant to touch and stroke. Her costume covers her entirely from her (tightly corseted) neck, all the way down to her (tightly corseted) waist and then below, ending in her crotch. It has holes for her breasts and her two holes but nothing more.

Certainly not for her arms and legs, for they no longer exist.

Raspberry had been horrified when she awoke, strapped to a hospital bed, with John Cobbler standing over her.

Despite the passage of the years, she recognised her old classmate immediately and realised within a split-second why she had been abducted. After all, there was no one on the estate who hadn’t heard of the local boy made good and, many’s the time she had wished that, rather than humiliating him (an action she regretted anyway – she’d only done it because Brett Mason had dared her to) she had dated him, married him, and become co-heir to his fortune.

Oh well, too late for that now.

And, as he spelled out what was to be done to her body, too late for anything else as well.

With a sick smile he described how each breast would be pumped full of silicon so that it would resemble a perfectly spherical beachball affixed to her chest.

And how her lips too would be pumped, this time full of collagen, with an O-ring implanted so that she would never be able to fully close her mouth or speak.

Indeed, he carried on, speaking was an impossibility anyway, since he’d had her vocal chords and teeth removed already.

And then he’d removed her gag to prove it.

He then spoke at length about piercings and some extensive remodelling of her pussy so that it would resemble her arsehole more than anything else, a small puckered opening through which she would feel no pleasure or relief when he fucked her.

But then he’d moved onto the terrifying bit. The bit when he talked about removing her arms and legs so that she could become his perfect human pillow.

He’d wanted to keep her awake for this process, but the doctors had not allowed it. They’d said that there was a risk that the shock and pain could kill her and, since he wanted his revenge to be long-term, he’d foregone the pleasure.

As compensation though, he’d had the whole ordeal filmed and one of his favourite entertainments was replaying it on loop before her eyes on the small TV screen located on the inside of the cupboard door while he went out for the day.

And it was in that cupboard that she stayed 24/7, or at least, whenever he didn’t need her. Speaking to no one, seeing no one save for her Master and Ahmed. None of the other girls even knew that she existed, although her Master did allow – or force – her to watch as he took one of more of them each and every night through the one-way glass of her living tomb.

She hated him, oh how she hated him. But she also hated herself. Why had she listened to that bastard Brett Mason (who’d only gone and dumped her the day they graduated)? Why had she gone out of her way to humiliate the class weirdo? Why had she aimed to cause pain rather than swallowed her pride and returned the devotion that he so obviously felt towards her (for she had noticed all those longing glances, even if she’d never returned them).

Of course, in her more rational moments, she knew that she would have never chosen to go with John Cobbler at school – which seventeen-year-old would? – but those rational moments came less and less these days.

And in their place came a desire to make up to him for the great wrong that she’d done, to debase herself even further as a way of demonstrating just what a worthless cow she had been then and still was now.

And so, when he turned away from his other harem girls and faced her, she stared back, trying her best to smile at him with her doll-eyes and modified mouth.

John detected the smile and revelled in the beautiful face that he had not only restored to its former glory but had also improved. “I suppose you deserve to be part of the celebrations too,” he said to her, walking over to the cupboard, picking her up from her stand and carrying her over to the bed.

He undressed slowly, lay down beside her and then positioned her enormous pillow lips over his cock. Thankfully and happily, she began sucking away until, minutes later, he erupted with ecstasy into her modified mouth.

A couple of minutes later, after the post-coital ecstasy had resided, her wiped the saliva and sperm off his crotch with her long blonde hair and then walked back over to the window, before turning back to her and smiling. Raspberry’s redemption is coming along nicely.

With a satisfied smile on his face, John turns away from Raspberry and fixes his gaze again on his five, more complete harem girls. Tonight he will do Peach the ultimate honour of making her his wife. That is the difference you see; girls who love him and obey him are rewarded. Those who disobey and humiliate him… he glances back at the truncated form in the cupboard, helpless, anonymous and all alone. Justice can be harsh sometimes.

He turns his face to the other pieces of fruit. Lemon and Melon make a good pair, as too do Apple and Pear, but he is sad that his beloved, the enchanting Peach, is, like Raspberry all alone. At first, he’d thought about pairing those two up, but then rethought the idea: the duplicitous quad might corrupt his wife’s pure mind.

No, once he’d made her his perfect wife, he needed to get her the perfect wedding present: his next job was to find her a friend.

Vignettes from the Harem #4: Apple & Pear

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Harem inductees 3 & 4:

Apple & Pear

Inducted: January 2014

You’d struggle to find the Republic of Transnistria on a map. That’s because it’s not marked. But it does exist! Established in 1994 after a brief war with Moldova, it has remained independent ever since, with its own army, government and currency. But, like South Ossetia, Abkhazia, the Luhansk People’s Republic and the Donbass People’s Republic, it is an unrecognised country born out of the ashes of the Soviet Union, unknown to most of the world.

It is also a world-renowned centre for people trafficking and mail-order brides and, perversely, an epicentre of “Living Barbies”, strange young women who undergo surgery and dieting to make themselves look like living embodiments of the famous doll. Any why? Well, the women of Transnistria are famously beautiful and exceptionally poor. Such strategies can be a route out of poverty.

Taking all of the above into account, it is no surprise that John Cobbler had always taken a keen interest in Transnistria.

That same John Cobbler currently has a problem. Some six months earlier, the moment his Balochistani palace was completed, he had established his harem, his personal collection of unique and exquisite women. It had two residents thus far, both enjoyable in their own way, but also satisfyingly different. Lemon, an ex-girlfriend of his, now modified into a perfect vision of restrained femininity, satisfied his yearning for revenge and his artist side, whilst Melon, his former PA, a slim and gorgeous Bulgarian graduate, sated him sexually and let him indulge in his love of fake spherical breasts (for she was now blessed with the finest pair in all creation). The pair made for happy nights to happy days, and he was a mostly contented fellow these days.

Mostly.

But not completely.

Of course, part of that lack of complete bliss is that he still had plans to enact, visions to realise. A harem of two is hardly very spectacular when all is said and done, even if those two are as wonderful as Lemon and Melon. But such plans should never be rushed and each stage should be savoured.

There were, however, more pressing needs.

One of these came in the middle of the night, sometimes more than once. Every morning in the early hours, he would wake up with the need to pee and, although the bathroom was en suite and only a few metres away, it was still an effort. At first he’d tried using Lemon as a pee receptacle, but even though she tried her best (at the threat of extensive punishment), the damned girl would splutter or choke and on more than one occasion, he ended up with a damp patch on the sheets where she had coughed up his acrid release.

And besides, who wants to kiss a girl whose mouth stinks of piss?

No, he needed a new solution to this and other problems. This harem had to be sustainable after all; what about when Lemon and Melon started to age too noticeably? And wouldn’t it be nice to have some ‘proper’ harem girls rather than just an ex in need of reform or a jumped-up secretary who caught his eye?

By ‘proper’, he meant ‘properly-trained’ in the ancient arts of the harem.

Training though, takes time and effort… and a good teacher. That, though, was the easy bit. He made some discreet enquiries and then hired the services of one Madame Rashida, well-known among the oil sheikhs as a first-class tutor to the inmates of a dozen or more harems. She agreed to enter his service for a full year to train his first pupils. After which, when they had graduated, they could train the next lot.

Sustainability. The watchword for the 21st century.

Now all he needed was the pupils. And so, the following week, John Cobbler took a flight to Odessa in Ukraine and then took a private car for the short journey across the border to Tiraspol, the capital of Transnistria.


Oksana Lukyanova and Tsvetlana Stepanova looked at one another in fear, their eyes bulging in their heads. This was not what they had signed up for, not what they had been expecting.

A week earlier both had been Year 10 students at School No. 8, Tiraspol City. That day a foreign man had been shown around the school by the headmaster, Mr. Rashkov. He had visited all the Year 10 and 11 classrooms, and the girls had been asked to practise their English on him. He had congratulated them on their efforts and then left. Later, the two friends had been called to the school nurse where, for some unexplained reason, they had been forced to submit to a rather intrusive health check. Upon ascertaining their status as virgins (both girls were churchgoers and, despite the best efforts of the local gallants, had wanted to save themselves for someone special) they had been dismissed. Then, their parents had been invited into the school and it was announced that the two had been selected for an exclusive scholarship, all-expenses paid in Switzerland, plus each family would be compensated for the loss of any earnings their daughters might bring in for the next five years by the princely sum of US$5,000 to be deposited in their father’s bank accounts on the first of every month. This, of course, represented a total change in circumstance for both the Lukyanovi and Stepanovi families and so both fathers had agreed on the spot, even though the two girls could not figure out why they had been chosen since their grades were mediocre at best. But it was agreed and so, the very next morning, they were escorted in a Mercedes Benz along with the foreign gentleman and a large black man to the airport at Odessa where, to their surprise, they boarded not a usual flight, but instead a private jet.

Once on board, an attendant brought them glasses of champagne to celebrate their good fortune and they drank them with glee as the plane taxied down the runway.

By the time it was airborne, they were both fast asleep.

And now they were awake again. And they were not on the plane and neither were they in Switzerland. Instead, they found themselves on a bed in what appeared to be some sort of Middle Eastern palace.

And they were naked.

And clean-shaven down below.

Oksana tried to scream but only a groan came out. She sat up, looked at her friend and saw that Tsvetlana had a large white ball gag on a white strap filling her mouth. Realising that she had the same lodged in her own mouth, she tried to remove it.

That was when she realised that her hands were cuffed behind her back.

Tsvetlana stared back at her full of fear and then both girls turned their heads towards the door for it had opened and in walked the large black man and an Arabian-looking lady.

“Good morning Apple and Pear,” she said in accented English. “Welcome to the Fruits Basket, your new home!”

A fortnight later…

Apple and Pear are now well-established in their new lives as harem girls in the Fruits Basket. Every morning they are awoken from their slumbers by Ahmed, their hands unchained from the headboard, and led to the bathroom where, under the strict supervision of Madame Rashida, they wash themselves thoroughly before towelling each other dry.

Then they don their indoor uniforms. These are simple, a white one-piece swimsuit each. Nothing more, nothing less. No adornment, no extras. They are white because the girls are virgins. They were chosen because of their virginity – and their looks – and, despite being residents in a harem, they will remain virgins for some time yet. And virgins must wear white.

After their ablutions, they eat a healthy breakfast and then engage in some exercise, generally running on a treadmill, aerobics or swimming a kilometre in their own private pool. Then they commence their training, which usually involves either sucking upon a rubber phallus until some salty goo shoots out of it or caressing and pleasuring each other.

But only up to a point. If Madame Rashida senses that one of them is about to climax then she yanks on the golden chain attached to their white leather collar that is always worn for this activity.

They are virgins after all, and virgins must not know sexual pleasure.

In the afternoons though, their routine is quite different. Then they are fitted with their outdoor uniform. This is far more complicated than the simple indoor garb. First up, a small white rubber plug with a jewelled end is inserted into the bottom of each girl and then, over it, adult nappies are secured. Following this, each girl puts on baggy harem trousers in white with incorporated white silken socks. There’s a bra to support their small, budding breasts and then a baggy silken shirt and then, in their mouths, a white ball gag.

White cotton gloves are fitted onto each hand and then their arms are drawn behind them and laced into a strict, white, leather monoglove. White slippers connected by a strap 20cm long are fitted onto their feet and then, finally, white burqas are lowered over their heads. These burqas are identical save for the name of each girl embroidered in golden embroidery over the two oval eye grilles. Then the two girls shuffle out to the courtyard where the fountain tinkles to spend time with their equally hidden and equally silenced sisters.

There they spend several hours just sitting. They are told that it is to “bond” with their fellow “pieces of fruit” but how can one bond with someone one can neither see nor speak to? The real reason, Apple and Pear suspect, is to teach them patience and obedience. But it is hard, for the plugs in their bottoms torment them and it can get hot in the Balochi sun. They long to throw back the layers and breath in the air freely rather than through a layer of cloth. But with their arms restricted as they are, throwing back anything is impossible. When first introduced to their monogloves, they found them unbelievably restrictive and painful, but now, as with everything else, they are starting to normalise these torture devices and besides, after half an hour or so, the arms go dead.

The evenings are what they live for. Then they retire to their quarters, are stripped of all their encumbrances, showered again and their indoor uniforms refitted including the collars and chains. The ends of the chains are secured to a ring set in the floor and their arms are bound again, this time in an even more painful configuration which, when they are fully trained, will enable them to hold them behind their backs, palm-to-palm, elbow-to-elbow, as if in prayer. That though is for the future; now, for a couple of joyful hours, they can speak with one another and, if they feel like it, kiss or cuddle. Despite the fact that both girls are straight, the lack of any other human contact makes this activity appealing.

Tonight though, rather than going to bed at nine like they usually do, Madame Rashida has announced that, for the first time ever, they will be serving the Master in his chambers. This announcement, long expected, both excites them and fills them with a degree of dread. How will they fare?


John Cobbler lies panting on the bed, his left hand cradling Melon’s buttocks and his right squeezing her left breast. Their lovemaking that evening had been, as always, most enjoyable, but now he is starting to feel the effect of those glasses of mint tea he imbibed before coming to bed. He takes his hand away from that exquisite globe of fake femininity and presses the small button by the side of the bed.

Within a minute the bedroom door opens to reveal a most remarkable sight.

An exquisitely beautiful teenage girl with chestnut hair done up in a French plait and wearing a plain, white, one-piece swimsuit, walks into the room. Her arms are ensconced in a strict white leather monoglove, tightly-laced so they stay ramrod straight, palm-to-palm, elbow-to-elbow, behind her back, but from a loop stitched into the end of that armbinder, loops a golden chain which is attached at its other end to the collar of a second teenage girl. This girl is identically attired in a one-piece white swimsuit, but she wears no monoglove and instead her white kid leather-gloved hands hold a brass vase decorated with calligraphy. Most remarkable though is her head, for it is completely hidden by a tightly laced hood of matching white leather with only three holes in it: one over each nostril and the third on the crown of her hidden head for the purpose of letting her mousey hair cascade out in its ponytail.

Melon watches their entrance with interest. This is not the first time she has seen them; their Master introduced his two virgins to their serving role the previous week, but all the previous times she has witnessed them, Apple was the hooded one and Pear the one wearing a monoglove. Each night their roles are reversed and the buxom Bulgarian is eager to see what the other virgin looks like. Is she as pretty as her partner? If anything, she is prettier.

Apple guides her blinded companion to the side of the bed where she then kneels and helps her friend to do likewise. Then Dave turns lazily over towards them so that his member is facing the sightless girl.

Following this, with whispered phrases in delightfully accented English, Apple guides Pear so that the blinded girl positions the brass vase directly in front of the flaccid tool. Once in place, a trickle of golden liquid tinkles into it. Apple watches it as if it were the finest nectar and then, once the stream has finished, she instructs Pear to remove the vase and she leans over and sucks her Master’s tool clean. Finally, she then turns to his face and says, “Thank you for letting us service you, Master.”

He smiles and strokes her hair. She hesitates. Two days ago, when he was sharing his bed with Lemon, he invited her into his bed and cuddled up next to her, stroking her breasts and squeezing her bottom through her indoor uniform for a few minutes before dismissing them, but today he proffers no invite, so she rises, instructs Pear to follow her and they pad their way out of the room.

John Cobbler lies back and uses Melon’s ample bosom as a pillow. Those two new additions to his harem are an absolute delight and he foresees many joyful evenings with them in the coming years after they blossom fully. He is already planning a joint deflowering ceremony in his mind, but that is for later. Now, he is tired; Melon with her boundless youthful energy has exhausted him. He nuzzles her magnificent breasts further and slowly drifts off to sleep.

 

 

Vignettes from the Harem #3: Peach

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Harem inductee 6:

Peach

Inducted: July 2015

On Tuesday the 21st July 2015, John Cobbler found himself waking up in his suite at the Hilton Hotel just off Park Lane in London. He yawned, stretched himself and then looked at the girl who was sleeping by his side. He’d elected to take Raspberry with him on this trip (for obvious reasons) and he was enjoying spending time with her. Nonetheless, he wasn’t happy. The raison d’etre for his extended stay back in his homeland was to attend the five test matches of the eagerly-anticipated Ashes series (being a man of wealth, getting tickets was hardly a problem these days), but, despite winning the first game, the home team had lost heavily to the Aussies at Lords, and he had witnessed every minute of it.

And not even Raspberry’s ministrations could make up for that.

To cheer himself up – and because he was a cultured man – after his trusted Sudanese eunuch Ahmed had packed Raspberry safely away, John betook himself to the Victoria and Albert Museum. He spent a pleasant hour or so examining the exhibits in the Oriental section, and then a good thirty minutes or so checking out some of the sumptuous gowns in the costume gallery (and wondering to himself how some of his girls would look wearing similar attire) before taking himself off to the glorious cast courts, easily the highlight of the establishment. In the Western Cast Court he sat himself down on a bench to contemplate Trajan’s Column when, into his view came a sight far more arresting even than the glories of the Classical Age all around him.

It was, of course, a girl. She was of average height, with long dark hair and seemed to be in her early twenties. However, what seized Mr. Cobbler’s attentions was not her glorious mane, nor even her sparkling eyes and firm, pert breasts (she spent most of her time with her back to him anyhow), but instead her absolutely marvellous, peachy, rounded and glorious bottom. Indeed, it was not a bottom, but a bottom of bottoms, a work of art drawn by a hand far greater than any mere human creator. Why, he could modify a girl a thousand times and not create a bum like that which she had thoughtfully displayed for him in an extremely tight-fitting pair of blue jeans. In an instant, he knew that he had to have her and then, even as the thought passed through his mind, God Himself delivered her into his gentlemanly hands.

She was making a sketch of the lower frieze on the column (which fortuitously put her dead ahead of Cobbler, her delightful derriere exactly in his eyeline and, since the frieze was so low down, she had to crouch to see it properly, the action causing her booty of great beauty to be emphasised all the more). And, as she crouched, something fell out of her pocket.

He watched with joy while she sketched and then traced her with his eyes as she walked off, before rising himself and picking up the dropped object. It was, as he thought, a purse, complete with cards, some petty cash and a photograph of her smiling into the camera with a far-less attractive friend or sister.

John took out his phone and typed out an encrypted message to “Yuri”, his international fixer.

Zala Radosová, Slovenian, student at UCL, London, DOB 22/07/1993

He pressed send and looked up. Zala was still in the Cast Court, and still engrossed in the artwork. She was now busy sketching details from the Portico de la Gloria from Santiago Cathedral. ‘Tastes as sophisticated as her bottom,’ thought Cobbler to himself, this revelation reinforcing that young Zala would make an excellent addition to his collection. He walked over to her.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” he said, referring to both her derriere and the portico.

She turned around slightly surprised and smiled at him. “Yes, it is wonderful.”

Her voice had a beautiful Slavic lilt to it which endeared her even more to him. John Cobbler was falling in love, or at least, as close to falling in love as someone like John Cobbler can fall.

“However,” he said, his voice becoming graver and a frown clouding his visage, “leaving this lying about on the floor is far less wonderful.”

He held up the purse and she looked embarrassed. “Oh my God, I never even realised! Thank you, thank you so much! You are very kind; I do so wish I could repay you somehow”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a smile. “Your smile is payment enough.”

Four months later…

In the gardens of the Cobbler Mahal sit five veiled figures. Each one is clad in a gorgeous Afghani burqa with exquisite embroidery and a tiny grille for them to see out of. All five figures are completely silent due to the gags filling their mouths and so they merely sit there, listening to the raga band that the master of the mahal has brought in to provide the evening’s entertainment.

Although the figures are all entirely shrouded from view – a necessary precaution since Cobbler Sahib has invited some of the local notables around to enjoy the evening – for those in the know, it is clear as to who they are, for each of their burqas is in a different colour. Well, all of them save for the two figures seated to the far right. Both of them wear pure white burqas which all present know signifies their status as virgins, his delightful Apple and Pear. But the others are strictly delineated by colour. From left to right there is a figure in a yellow burqa which is Lemon, one in a green burqa with the embroidery picked out in pink named Melon, but it is the central figure, the one clad in a fine peach burqa that commands all the attention, for not only does she wear a burqa, but on her head rests a diamond tiara. John Cobbler smiles to himself as he sees the other girls glance towards her and then away, turning their burqa grilles in curiosity and jealousy. For the wearing of the tiara signifies, as every member of his harem knows, that this is the last girl to have received the master’s seed. The two girls in white silently wonder what it is like and the other two wish it were them.

For Peach has been wearing the tiara for a full week straight now, an unprecedented length of time in the Fruits Basket.

Under her coverings, the girl formerly known as Zala and now referred to only as Peach, is trying to let the music take her away to another place. When she turns over in her mind all that has happened in the past three months and more, she really struggles to take it in. She is in shock, which, considering the incredible sequence of events, is only understandable.

Her life was normal, so very normal. In fact, it wasn’t even normal, it was good. Beyond her wildest dreams. She had worked hard, unbelievably hard at her degree at the University of Ljubljana and had been rewarded with a 1st class honours. But then things got even better; she was awarded to further her studies at the world-class University College London where she could read an MA in Classical Art. And so there she was, the quiet, shy girl from rural Slovenia, in one of the most exciting cities on earth, studying the subject she loved.

Until, walking home one night from the tube station, a woman approached her and unloaded a syringe in her arm. Immediately the world had turned black and, when she woke up, she was in some weird palace in the Middle East.

She had felt so disorientated, so strange. One minute she was on a London street and the next she was lying in a luxurious bed with sunlight streaming in through skylights in the roof.

And she was naked.

Well, almost.

She was naked in that she wore no clothes, but her body was adorned with golden jewellery. Chains looped from her nose to her ears and around her ankles were filigree golden cuffs. Worse than that though, through her nipples were golden rings from which little bells hung.

And worse than that, her breasts had changed. They were larger and firmer.

They had altered her!

But who were ‘they’…?

And that was not the worst of it. Her arms were held behind her back in some sort of device that kept them elbow to elbow, palm to palm.

And around her middle, sealing her private parts away was a pair of golden underpants with a grille for her to pee through.

And around her neck a golden collar, upon which a name was engraved:

Peach

She learned quick. A large black man came to her room and fed her like a baby. He told her that she was in the harem of Cobbler Sahib whom she should simply refer to as ‘Master’. He then went on to say that this harem was unofficially referred to as the Fruits Basket because all the girls in it had been given new names, each a type of fruit, and that hers was Peach.

Peach. Somehow a nice name yet demeaning at the same time.

And that day, when she met her fellow pieces of fruit in the Basket. Well, sort of met. They, like her, had all been covered in thick embroidered gowns with a grille to see through, so she didn’t know what they looked like and, since she was gagged – and she assumed that they were too – couldn’t speak with either. Later though, one of the girls, the one they called Melon who was wearing a dainty tiara on her head, was allowed to talk with her from behind her coverings. She explained that they existed only to serve the Master and that she had been honoured to grace his bedroom last night. Peach had so many questions, the first being about their names.

“We are reborn when we enter the Fruits Basket, so we require new names. In here, we are all fruit, but our names signify something. I am Melon for good reason. Lean you head on my chest.”

Peach did as she was commanded and was shocked to feel two enormous hard spheres beneath the material. “I was an A-cup before, now I have two of the largest breasts on the planet, each as big as a melon, hence the name. And you are Peach, and so, my guess is, you have a large bum?”

Beneath her layers Peach blushed. It was all too crude.


“I must prepare you for your night with the Master,” he told her.

Ahmed had said those words to her after she had been in the harem for about a month. Had he said them on the first night, she would have resisted with all her might, but that month had worn her down. She craved human contact, skin-to-skin contact and, after spending every day looking at the portraits of the Master with his tool standing proudly erect, she longed to meet him in person.

Plus, she was feeling horny. Desperately horny, aching for release like she had never known before.

She’d objected, of course, cried and screamed a bit. She’d pleaded and wailed, but Ahmed had put up with it all with a smile and then reiterated that this was her life now and that usually such a performance would result in punishment but today he would make an exception and that being invited to the Master’s chamber was a great honour.

And, because she was basically a shy, submissive girl and was still in shock, she acquiesced and let him braid her hair and apply her make-up, oils and perfumes.

And then she was led down the corridors to the man who now owned her.

The experience was not how she’d expected it to be. She’d expected him to be harsh and cruel, yet he had been gentle, considerate and kind. After taking her virginity, he’d removed the bindings from her arms and let her cuddle him and, strange though this might sound, she’d relished the opportunity and clung to him for dear life as if he meant the world to her.

Or as if he were her only certainty in a suddenly uncertain world.

Later, when she was sitting with the other members of the Fruits Basket, after Melon had explained to her what the tiara she now donned signified, she remembered reading about something called Stockholm Syndrome whereby kidnap victims fall in love with their kidnappers. Was that what this was?

Maybe so, yet there was something else as well. The Master looked vaguely familiar, yet she could not place him. Certainly, he was not someone she knew and yet she had the feeling that they had met somewhere before…

…somewhere before all this.

She’d woken in his arms, sunlight streaming through the open windows which overlooked glorious gardens cascading down a mountainside. They’d made love again, slowly and passionately, the only thing that was strange was him paying great attention to her bottom, which he kept kneading and stroking. Indeed, he preferred to take her doggy style, as if he wanted to see her bum more than her face. Why this should be, she could not think, since she’d always been a tad ashamed of the excessive size of her bottom, but he was the Master and it mattered not because after they’d finished and they lay there, his hand on that bottom, they’d talked of classical music and art and she’d thought him a fine and cultured gentleman.

After that though, things had been a little harder. The black eunuch had taken her to one side and said that she would be with the Master again that evening, but this time he would want to sample her other hole. Horrified by the idea, she resisted, but a few sharp smacks on her gluteus maximus had caused her to cease her resistance and instead she had sobbed silently as he leant her over the bed and slowly inserted a lubed plug into her anus.

It had been painful but more than anything, it had been humiliating and, after it was done and the chastity belt (such as the golden pants were called) were replaced, it stayed in there and she was expected to wear it for the rest of the day, it’s ever-constant presence disturbing her immensely.

But that evening it was removed and replaced with a larger, living plug of flesh and muscle that slid in and out of that most private of holes before finally erupting deep within her womb.

And yet afterwards, in the post-coital bliss, he had been so gentle, kind, considerate and loving again that, well, it had seemed almost as a dream.

And so things had continued. Her life had become a surreal routine of luxurious lounging about by day and frenzied sexual activity by night unless, of course, one of the other pieces of fruit was chosen, and then she lay on her bed feeling uncontrollably horny, yet unable to relieve that tension due to the monoglove (such as it was called) binding her arms and the chastity belt around her waist.

And all the time, in her rear hole, there was lodged the plug, teasing and tormenting her but, more importantly than that, reminding her of her new status and identity as the finest derriere in the Fruits Basket.

She squirms, thinking about the plug, and, to try and take her mind away from it and her new status in life, she listens to the music, attempting to lose herself in the soundwaves as the raga band quickens its tempo and causes this world to fall away and a new realm to appear, a realm of spiritual beauty, a timeless age of grace and elegance and…

… she remembers.

The man in the museum.

The man who had handed her the purse she had dropped.

The kind stranger whom she had wanted to repay so very much.

Well, tonight as with most nights, she could at least settle that debt…

And looking at her veiled form squirm, John Cobbler smiles a wry smile. Of all the pieces of fruit in his basket, she is the most intelligent and most genuine. He can respect her as a person as well as enjoy her sexually. Which is why, unbeknownst to her, the raga band and local notables have been invited tonight. For Peach is the first – and possibly the only – piece of fruit that he is granting the status of wife to. He arranged for an imam to sign the documents earlier today and tonight he will enjoy her front hole for the first time since that first night and, for the first time ever, without her being on the pill. After all, he needs a son to carry on his line and who better than intelligent, cultured Peach to bear him…?

Vignettes from the Harem #2: Melon

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Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Vignettes from the Harem #1: Lemon

Harem inductee 2:

Melon

Inducted: October 2013

When he first entertained his vision of a sexually glorious future in his purpose-built Balochi palace surrounded by his collection of extraordinary women, John Cobbler realised that this was not something he could do alone.

Most of it was entirely feasible for him to map out, organise and cope with. He had an extraordinary intellect and an incredible administrative mind (in his opinion), but he realised that for some of the more humdrum day-to-day matters, logistical support would be a necessity and so, when he had only mapped out the bare bones of the project, he advertised for a project manager to work with him in realising his dream.

And, due to the generous wages he was prepared to offer, he had no shortage of applicants for the post. He diligently sifted out the weaker ones by hand and then had a short videolink interview with the remaining candidates, after which he whittled it down to five whom he then flew to London for the final interview (since he was in the city himself, using as a base whilst he caught the summer’s test series). And so, he hired out a nice suite in the city and spent a day interviewing his five potentials. All were good, but two stood head and shoulders above the rest. The first was a man in his thirties named Michael who had been to Oxford and seemed both dynamic and competent, having managed several projects since for large multi-nationals. He was the safe bet.

The second was named Penka and she was a young Bulgarian lady. Fresh out of the University of Central Europe (to which she had won a prestigious scholarship) she was totally inexperienced yet dynamic, committed, enthusiastic and, to top it all off, gorgeous. As he sat there listening to her speak about returns, workforce strategies and competitive tendencies, he admired her long dark hair that cascaded down her back, her brown eyes that you could dive into, her olive Mediterranean skin and her pearly white teeth, whilst her melodic accent with its soft ‘v’s and ‘l’s soothed his soul. He also admired her shapely legs, shown off to their best advantage by the well-tailored business suit she wore which incorporated a tight skirt that finished mid-thigh. He would trust her to not only bring a project to a successful climax, but also his cock.

And so, in the end, he hired both of them. Michael, it transpired in their post-interview chat, was a big cricket fan as well, and so John gave him the task of sorting out all his new homes and businesses around the globe. To Penka however – or Pepi as she preferred to be called – he handed over the Balochi project, with the deadline of a finished palace a year from the starting date.

And that done, he flew off to the UAE where he’d made a business acquaintance who had promised to introduce him to an Arab with a genuine modern-day harem who was prepared to talk about how to set one up and maintain it.


When John next saw Pepi a fortnight later, she was looking less ravishing, but everything else was to his tastes. Her diminished sexual appeal was due to her having adopted a loose headscarf and flowing full-length dresses so as to give herself an advantage with the locals when negotiating for land and materials. She had located several suitable sites and also sourced several architects and builders. John chose a particularly stunning location on the side of a valley and then selected the design of an Arabian architect who envisaged a sort-of modern-day Mughal-Abbasid fusion villa complete with courtyards and enclosed gardens. That day, the land was purchased, and the construction started.

“There is only one thing I am not so sure of,” said Pepi that evening in the hotel lounge.

“What is it?” John asked.

“This section here, with these courtyards and multiple bedrooms. It is merely marked guest accommodation, but there are a great number of rooms here. Do you really require so many?”

“Oh yes, I intend to hold large parties from time to time.”

“Very well then, but also, the rooms are not large or well-appointed and none of them have windows to the outside. They are a little like prison cells almost. Do you think your guests will like that?”

(Pepi, of course, had not been party to John’s private conversation with the architect around the nature of the expected guests in that wing of the building).

“Yes, it is strange isn’t it, but I have been assured that in this culture, such accommodation is the norm. Unlike us Europeans, the Asians do not appreciate grand views, they prefer intimate spaces that are private, and I have been told they will welcome rooms such as these greatly.”

“So be it then.”

In fact, the cells for the harem girls were modelled almost directly on those of Sheikh Humaid bin Rashid Al Qasimi who had kindly shown John Cobbler around his home during the billionaire’s trip to the UAE. Dave had let the sheikh know that, privately (though not publicly for fear of alienating friends and supporters in Europe) he had converted to Islam and wished to live a pious Islamic life from now on, hence his choice of Pakistan for his palace, and his notion of collecting a harem.

And although, sadly, he had not let John see any of the fifty or more inmates of his private harem, he had talked the Englishman through their training regimes and other routines. Indeed, it was after this talk that John fully understood why he had seen none of the girls: part of the harem methodology was for the girls to never be able to see or speak with a male apart from their master and the eunuchs, so that, over time, they gradually channel all their sexual and romantic desires into the correct place. “Most of my girls have forgotten what any man other than me and my Sudanese eunuchs looks like; they have only fuzzy, shady pictures, whereas I am real and always present, either in person or in the form of my portraits on the wall.” And indeed, those portraits of the naked sheikh, his member fully erect, were one of the first things that John noticed on his tour for they were, well… very noticeable.

“And another thing,” the enthusiastic Arab had continued, “they must be dehumanised. You break who they once were and make them something new. Their old wants, needs and identity is erased the moment that they walk through these doors. The main tool I use to do this is to rename them. Mine are all named after flowers – Primrose, Lily, that kind of thing – but that is not the only option. A friend of mine calls them all after spices. But the renaming is not all; I also keep them veiled and hidden at all times save for when they are in my bed. Apart from a single friend from within the harem – selected by me, of course – and the eunuchs and me, no one knows what they look like. They spend many hours together with their “sisters” as we term them, but they never know what each other looks like, so, of course, their imaginations go into overdrive, and they imagine that each woman is unbelievably gorgeous and so feel jealous and inadequate and work even harder to please me!”

John listened in admiration. The sheikh had given him much to think about.


The next time he saw Pepi, the foundations of the palace had already been put in place and in some parts the walls were several feet high. He could imagine in his mind’s eye how it would appear when finished and he liked what he imagined.

He also liked what he saw before him. Pepi, no longer needing to satisfy the natives, had switched to a more sensuous dress code. A pair of white jeans clung to her hips and buttocks whilst a tight top showed off her upper figure. It was driving the workmen wild which, he suspected, was why she wore it. Her sensuality gave her power over men, including him. But it wasn’t perfect; her breasts, although pert and well-formed, were far too small for John’s tastes. They were B-cup at most, more likely A. As they surveyed the works, he imagined her with large, spherical, obviously fake tits, and liked what he imagined.

John had a thing for fake tits you see.

They flew back to Lahore and that evening he took her out for dinner in the city’s best restaurant. She wore an alluring long black number with a low neckline and, again, John imagined how good it would be if she had a cleavage to show off. It was as if God had made her 95% perfect but had left the remaining 5% up to someone else.

“Listen Pepi, you’ve been working really hard and I love what you’ve achieved so far. But you deserve a break; overwork can cause burn-out you know.”

“John,” she purred, “like I said in my interview, I am focussed and goal-driven. I cannot rest properly until this job is done!”

“Well, why not we meet halfway. My other PM has just purchased a lovely place for me in Barbados. How’s about you join me there for a week or so. It’s got a fully equipped office so you can continue doing everything that you need to, but in the evenings you can relax. My shout!”

Her face lit up delightfully. “Really?!”

“Really.”

“Thanks, so much. You’re a dream boss.”

And when she left that evening, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.


The week she spent at his new Caribbean home was one that would remain long in John Cobbler’s memory. Nothing happened in one sense, but in another the sexual tension and unspoken passion between them fizzled. That was partly due to the aphrodisiacs that her food was laced with, naturally, but there was more than that. John liked this girl, she was steaming. He knew that he had to have her. But to content himself until that time came, he carefully filmed and photographed her using secret camera in her room, and the ones he got of her in her skimpy black bikini on the beach using his expensive zoom lenses, he had blown up and framed. They were really artistic.

And the day she returned to Pakistan, he took a flight to Mexico to meet the plastic surgeon and body modification expert who he’d had recommended to transform his bitter ex-girlfriend into the sultry, helpless and unwilling first inductee into his harem.

And after he’d gone through the details of her transformation, he outlined his ideas for a second girl.

“It’s possible,” replied Dr. Carlos. “In fact, this is easy work for me, for there is little to do. Mostly, it is the breasts, no? From tiny and natural to enormous and fake. Two beachballs on the chest, why not? It will suit her, I think. But tell me, you said you are thinking to call them all by the name of fruit, no? We have already Project Lemon, so what shall I call this one?”

They both looked down at the vision he had sketched out on the paper and then at one another. “Project Melon,” they declared in tandem before dissolving into a fit of laughter.


Pepi Alexandrova looked out of the grand window of the master bedroom at the half-built Cobbler Mahal and smiled with pride and satisfaction. This, her first big break in the world of business, was not only going to plan, but so much more. The palace construction was ahead of schedule and her boss professed himself not only satisfied with the standard of the work, but “overwhelmed” and “more than pleased” at both the cost and end result. So much so, that he’d given her a bonus.

More than that, she could tell that he was falling for her. Big time. Coming from an impoverished background in one of Europe’s deadest backwaters as she did, she’d long known that she’d have to use both her beauty and her brains to get her where she wanted to be in life. Her brains had got her the interview, but her beauty – plus the carefully-chosen outfit on which she’d gambled most of her savings – had won her the role. And whilst her brains and work ethic were keeping her in his good books, her beauty was potentially going to bring so much more. When he invited her to his place in Barbados, she’d known that she’d snared him, but she’d feigned ignorance and kept a slight distance so that he’d want her all the more. It pays to be coy sometimes.

And the end prize was well worth waiting for. I mean, just look at that Caribbean villa for starters! She imagined herself installed as the mistress of the place, Mrs. Cobbler. It was a tantalising dream.

Of course he himself was not quite so alluring. I mean, he wasn’t exactly bad-looking, and he did have a certain quirky attraction to him at times, but there was also a rather disconcerting weirdness lurking under the surface, as if his judgement in social situations was not always that sharp. Like the other week in London when they’d had dinner together at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in the West End and then gone on to an exclusive club. In the club, he’d nestled up to her and then started some weird conversation about plastic surgery. What did she think of it? Would she ever consider it? The inspiration was obvious – there were two girls in the booth across from them with obviously enhanced tits, tits so unnaturally huge and spherical that it made them look like cartoon dolls – and true, he was drunk, but even so, is that really what one talks to a lady about? Anyway, she’d made it clear that she was quite satisfied with her breasts as they were and no, she would never countenance an enhancement.

But such incidents like that were occasional and, considering everything else, could be coped with. No one is perfect after all, certainly no men are. And he had so much to offer.

She fell down onto the luxurious king-sized bed. It had been a spark of genius of hers to offer to live on the site so that she could oversee things more closely, and then make sure that the master suite was the first part completed. Now she was living like a sultana whilst earning the wage of a banker and seducing a billionaire.

Could life get any better?

Six months later…

Melon lies on the same grand bed that she lay upon six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

Melon looks out on the same glorious vista that she looked out upon six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

Melon thinks about the same man that she thought about six months earlier when she was called Pepi.

But things are oh so different now.

For now she is Melon.

And Pepi is but a fading memory.

Things were going so well, everything seemed to be running to plan. John Cobbler did fall for her and, one night, just as the palace had reached completion and they were holding a celebratory meal in the freshly painted dining room, he did take her hand and kiss it. And then her cheek. And then her lips. And then they went hand-in-hand to that glorious bedchamber – this glorious bedchamber! – and consummated their new-found love.

And that night she fell asleep in the arms of her boss and her dreams were filled with visions of a life of luxury as the lover of John Cobbler.

Well, in some respects, she muses, they came true.

When she awoke, she was no longer in that – this – grand bed. Instead, she was in a small cell-like room. She recognised it immediately; it was one of the guest rooms that she had supervised the construction of. She realised with a roll of her eyes that John must have carried her here from the master bedroom whilst she was asleep. Quite why he would do that, she couldn’t fathom out, but he obviously had done. Well, as she’d said before, he could be a little strange sometimes.

She sat up and that is when she realised that there may be more to his actions than she’d first realised.

Because when she sat up, she jingled.

And her enormous breasts bounced about provocatively.

Her enormous breasts!!!!!!

What the…?

She brought her hands to them and looked down. Each was easily the size of a football, perhaps more, and perfectly spherical in shape. Furthermore, each was tipped by a puffy, engorged nipple, through which a ring had been fitted and from each ring a little bell hung.

That had been the jingling.

Well… some of it…

Pepi brought her hands to those nipples. They were so sensitive, so wonderful…

She heard more jingling. Instinctively, she brought her hands down to her slit. There was something there too, a piercing, a bell…

She looked down but those ridiculous breasts obscured her view. Still, she had designed these rooms, she knew where to go. She got up and went into the en suite bathroom with its full-length mirror. OMG! Yes, there was a bell there! Her clit had been pierced and a ring inserted and from the ring, a bell. But there was more than that. She stroked her slit. All the hair was gone, not even the trace of any stubble and her lips appeared more prominent and the clit huge and puffed up like…

She brought her hand up to her lips. Yes, they were larger now and…

She opened her mouth and saw the ring through the end of her tongue and the identical bell dangling from it.

What on earth had happened to her?!

She screamed.

Ten minutes later she was back on the bed and her breasts were heaving up and down ten to the dozen with each laboured breath. The shock had caused a panic attack. Standing over her was a large black man with a bloated face and a loose robe covering his flabby body. He was the one who had arrived when she’d screamed. He was the one who had held her down when she’d started flailing and fighting. He was the one who had explained everything.

Explained that she was now Melon, not Pepi.

Explained that she was the second inductee in the Master’s new harem.

Explained that the harem is nicknamed the Fruits Basket because all its members bear the name of types of fruit.

Explained that her purpose in life was now to serve the Master sexually and to make herself attractive and available for him at all times.

Explained that the Master was currently with the other harem inmate, the first inductee whose anal virginity he was honouring her by taking.

Explained that that other inmate is called Lemon and that this Lemon is to be her partner and only friend from now on.

Explained that the Master is none other than John Cobbler, her former boss, and that when he receives her tomorrow night, she must thank him for the honour of being allowed into his harem.

Explained that she will never be allowed to leave.

That had all been half a year – and what felt like half a lifetime – ago. And those months that followed had been hard. The first time he had sent for her, she had resisted and Ahmad – the black man who had inducted her into the harem – had had to chain her down and gag her. And when John had removed that gag to kiss her, she’d spat at him and told him that she hated him and that she would never love him or give herself to him of her own volition again and that he was the worst man in all the world.

And he had just smiled, nodded, and then rang for Ahmad who had unchained her and taken her back to her own room.

And that was that. He never called for her again or took any notice of her. But whilst John did not think of Melon, Melon began to think constantly about John. Of course, having a portrait of him standing naked on the ceiling above her did not help matters. She longed to pull it off, but as she was always chained down in her bed, only being freed to complete her strenuous morning exercises, before being restrained again and then veiled, she never had the chance. And perhaps it was all those BDSM restraints like the binder that held her arms behind her back, or the cuffs that linked her ankles, but she began to feel hornier and hornier.

Hornier and hornier, but with no prospect of relief. More and more, she longed to finger herself, to relieve the unbearable tension in her nether parts.

But it was never possible for even in the shower, her hands were chained to a ring dangling from the ceiling, while Ahmad sponged and rinsed her.

And when she was sitting next to her “friend” Lemon and she – if she could still be called a “she” after all the modifications John had ordered done to her – spoke at length about her nights with the “Master” and what he did to her (well, what else had Lemon got to talk about?), then poor Melon almost went wild with desire.

Until, in the end, she could not take it anymore and so, a month ago, she mentioned to Ahmad that she wanted to share a bed with the Master, and he promised to mention it.

But nothing happened for a whole week, so she mentioned it again, and again he promised to speak to John.

But again she heard nothing and so this time she begged.

And a week later John deigned to have her heavily veiled form brought before him on the terrace. And, with a smile, he had removed her burqa and gag, kissed her on the mouth and then tickled her fanny with his fingers causing almost unbelievable pleasure.

Then she had begged him.

“Prove that you mean it, Melon,” he had said.

She knew, there and then, that this was the moment. Obey him now and there could be no turning back; he would have broken her spirit and sent her on a journey of no return. But the ache in her fanny was so great and his touch had been so momentous that, after only a few seconds of hesitation, she nodded, knelt down in front of him and received his cock in her mouth.

And when he withdrew at the last moment and erupted all over her face, it was as if she were new baptised. Henceforth she never would be Penka – or Pepi – again.

And today, a week later, Melon lies waiting for her Master, ready to truly become his woman… and to satisfy that impossible ache. She is his now; that is all that she needs to know.

Vignettes from the Harem #1: Lemon

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Harem inductee 1:

Lemon

September 2013

Stacey Jones looked at her reflection in the mirror. She surveyed the figure staring back at her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.

And as she looked, she wept.

Half an hour later she was still gazing at the same surreal image. She had no choice. That would be her view until he decided otherwise.

He. That bastard Cobbler. Her “Master” as she was now supposed to say. By God she hated the shit. Hated him like she had never hated anyone before, not even her two-timing ex-husband.

Three years ago, it had all been so different. They’d met online and he’d charmed her with his intelligence and wit. When they met in person, he lived up to his online potential. No Brad Pitt or David Beckham perhaps, but then she was neither Angelina Jolie nor Posh Spice.

Well, she wasn’t back then.

But he had been pretty presentable, willing to pay the bills and, in all actuality, pretty good fun to be around. She’d agreed to a second date, then a third and then a fourth and, before she knew it, they were an item.

Of course, he hadn’t been perfect. His social skills could be a bit lacking at times, and under the surface he suspected he had some pretty weird thoughts running through his head. He always had mad business ideas in his mind that were going to be the next big thing, like fish foot spas or frikandel imports. But they never worked.

Well, not until Market Place.

How many times had Stacey kicked herself for leaving him before that went massive? Of course, we can’t see into the future and how was she – or anyone else for that matter – to know that it was going to prove to be as lucrative as a whole field of gold mines? Nothing else he’d ever thought up had come off when all’s said and done. But even so, if only she’d hung on for another few months, then she could have been living in a palace by now.

Except she was living in a palace now. It just wasn’t how she’d imagined it to be.

It had been the anal references that had started it. He’d asked casually one evening as to what she thought anal sex. She’d replied that it was an act she had never even considered, nor would she, and that was that. But following that evening, every so often, casual references to her arse and taking it up said part of the anatomy were made.

More than though, there was Chris. She’d met him going for a jog in the park and it truly was love at first sight. He was witty, sophisticated and totally hench! She hadn’t meant to two-time John, indeed, having been a victim of such behaviour in the past, she knew how painful it could be, but she just couldn’t help herself. She justified it with the thought that what is meant to be is meant to be and God obviously wanted her and Chris to be together or else He wouldn’t have thrown him in her path. So, a month later, after a minor row over something or other, she stormed out and left. John was history; Chris was now hers for the taking!

Or so it had seemed.

Chris had only lasted eighteen months before he went off with a personal trainer from Wigan. And in that time John Cobbler had gone from no one to billionaire while she was still stuck in the same flat and same job.

As I said, she’d been kicking herself.

Until that is, out of the blue, John Cobbler turned up again. He was in England to watch the cricket (that had always been a rather annoying obsession of his…) and wondered if she wanted to meet-up for a meal to make-up for their rather acrimonious parting? How could a girl say no, particularly when that meal was at a very expensive Japanese place in the West End?

And during that meal he’d suggested that he still had feelings for her, and she’d intimated she still felt something for him and that she was repentant and that she would be open to giving it all a second chance.

And he had invited her to his new place in Pakistan of all places.

And she had accepted and boarded the plane to Islamabad.

But then, when she was walking the streets of the Pakistani capital prior to meeting up with John the following day, a gang of kidnappers, seeing a white woman as easy prey, had surrounded her and knocked her out with chloroform.

The police were at a loss to explain it and did not seem to be in any sort of hurry to do anything. And then, a body burnt beyond all recognition was found on a waste dump at the edge of town. The coroner said that it was hers, though no one could tell.

So what was she doing standing here looking at herself in the mirror?

Because now she knew that the kidnappers had been in the pay of the very man who had invited her here.

The same man who had paid-off both the police and the unscrupulous coroner.

The same man who had brought her here and then done… this to her.

The same man that now intended to “honour” her by allowing her to become the first inductee into his harem.

The same man that now insisted she was called ‘Lemon’ and that Stacey – who was dead anyway – must never be mentioned again.


John Cobbler gazed at the same heavenly vision that his ex-girlfriend was currently staring at. But whilst it brought her horror, to him it brought great joy.

And the vision was exactly the same because, unbeknownst to her, the delicate, teardrop bindi piercing that now graces the centre of her forehead, actually includes a microscopic camera so her Master can now view the world through her eyes.

And that is but one feature of the remarkable updated Stacey, or Lemon v1.0 as he jokingly refers to her.

And it is far from the most noticeable.

John decided to take his ex-girlfriend back because he still had feelings for her. True, they mostly consisted of revenge and bitterness, but Stacey was an attractive woman, and, under his expert tutelage, she could become perfect.

She is his new project you see, the first exquisite woman in his collection.

And boy is she exquisite!

A living embodiment of feminine perfection!

Take for example her neck. Long, narrow and swanlike… and totally immobile, encased as it is in its narrow tube of solid gold covered with intricate engravings.

Or her waist, only slightly larger than the neck, a mere 38cm in circumference, achievable only through rib removal and the wearing of a permanent corset of solid gold.

And how that waist displays what lies both above and below it to perfection!

Lemon’s hips and bottom, previously understated are now a veritable statement of womanhood! Huge implants in her buttocks have caused her to have immense, protruding mounds that would satisfy even Sir Mix-A-Lot, whilst above the waist, breasts of quite unbelievable proportions (unless you are Penelope Black Diamond) jut forth, perfectly spherical and never sagging.

And each is tipped by a monstrous nipple, injected full of collagen, pink, permanently erect and pierced, not only with a nipple shield around its base, but a gold ring through the tip, which is joined to the matching ring with a gold chain whilst other chains connect them to the golden rings in her ears and septum.

More disconcerting though, is the golden plug which fills her anus, on the end of which a large ruby twinkles at the observer. Being constantly filled causes poor Lemon much distress, but her Master is quite strict about it always being present, only to be removed for her thrice-daily enemas.

And there is more! Below the corset her hairless mound has been transformed. Silicone and vacuum pumping have caused her permanently engorged clitoris to almost resemble a miniature penis, whilst a ring with another ruby crowns it and other rings line her pussy lips, through which laces are threaded and tied tightly, denying access to that private area (and making sure the golden ball within does not slip out). So, she is tormented constantly, but release is not possible.

And below this, below the cuffs on her ankles and the chain that links them, we can see her feet forced into boots which force them into the en-pointe position, so that she has to shift constantly from one tortured point to the other.

But none of these things, nor too her tongue piercings, the chains looped across her cheeks nor even the jewel-eye piercings blessing her eyebrows or the medusa piercing blessing her philtrum, are the most striking aspect of Lemon’s extreme new look. No, that honour must go to her arms.

Or the complete lack of them!

That is right, where once there were arms, now there are but rounded shoulders without even an unsightly scar to indicate what has been taken away.

After all, arms get in the way of things and as a looked-after lady, a precious jewel who exists only to serve her Master, Lemon no longer has need of such appendages.

And that distresses her beyond all imagining. She feels so helpless, so mutilated, so… controlled.

Now the only things that just out of her upper body are her tits.

And this is the vision that she now surveys, unmoving for over an hour.

Because this is part of her training. Every morning, after her enema, showering and exercise under the careful eye of Ahmed the eunuch, Lemon is hung from the ceiling in front of her mirror by golden chains attached to her waist. The pressure is immense but she can relieve it slightly as her toes just touch the ground, but standing for too long on them is also painful, so the hour becomes a battle between the two torments whilst she merely contemplates the vision that she has now become.

After that, things get less painful but equally surreal.

Lemon is released, fed, gagged and then dressed in eastern clothes before an Afghani-style burqa, yellow to reflect her new name, is draped over her. Then she is guided by Ahmed to the gardens or the ladies’ courtyard where she sits hidden, silenced and veiled, contemplating the flowers, fountains or perhaps her Master who likes to sit with her and read.

And that is her afternoon. Her Master has hinted that in a short time another girl will arrive to keep her company, but at present she is alone save for him and Ahmed.

Ahmed who then takes her inside, spoon feeds her dinner like a baby and then prepares her for the night.

Prepares her by rubbing oil and perfume all over her skin and in her holes.

Prepares her by braiding her hair and applying her make-up.

Prepares her with another enema so she is as clean inside as out.

And then leads her to his bedchamber.

Oh how she hates him, detests the man that she once loved.

Oh how humiliated she feels when she is “arranged” on the bed, pillows beneath her, her enormous enhanced buttocks in the air and her mammoth breasts squashed beneath her.

For he will take her anally tonight. As he does every night. As he will continue to do until he feels that she has “redeemed” herself.

She longs for fulfilment and yet only he ever receives it.

And after he has “blessed” her with his seed, he flips her over and uses her gargantuan breasts as his pillow.

And she wonders what sort of sick mind could think up such a life whilst the insects hum in the balmy Balochi night.

Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Vignettes from the Harem

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

Introduction: John Cobbler

John Cobbler was a nobody. He had been born a nobody, grown up a nobody and was now very much a middle-aged nobody.

Or at least, that was how the world viewed him. In his own mind there was quite a different impression.

But that didn’t matter because no one cares about what a nobody thinks.

Until, that is, they become a somebody.

Which is what happened to John Cobbler when he hit upon the idea of Marketplace, a website to buy and sell goods. Within months he had become a millionaire and it only kept growing. Until that is, a major tech giant set up a rival business named Amazon which then offered him a cool $110bn for his company. John sold. After all, he was beginning to get bored of it all by now and he wanted a new project. Getting bored of things quickly was a trait of John’s. Some might call it a character flaw, but he looked at things differently; in his mind it kept him fresh and “on point”.

Like I said before, this was a guy who truly believed that he was a somebody.

So John took the money and ran. Well, metaphorically. He used it to build an enormous palace for himself in, of all places, Pakistan. He built other residences too, in his native Britain and also a smaller ones Barbados, Australia and Sri Lanka (John was also an avid cricket fan) but the Pakistani one was the one that mattered.

Or at least, the one that matters for us.

Because the Pakistani one represented John’s latest project. The realisation of his life’s dream; the one thing that would never bore him.

From his earliest days, John Cobbler had been a collector. As a child he’d stuck stamps in stamp albums and stood on station platforms writing down engine numbers. Nothing excited him like collecting (indeed, it was this passion that had helped him to spy the need for Market Place). And now that he was unimaginably wealthy, he wished to start a new collection.

A collection of women.

And the palace in Pakistan would house his harem.

He’d decided upon Pakistan after a great deal of thought. The proximity of cricket grounds was a major factor, but it was far from the only one. He liked the fact that it was an Islamic country, since Muslims accepted the idea of harems far more readily, and the Pakistanis were not known to be strong on female liberation. But more important than that, he knew that Pakistan – or at least, the remote province of Balochistan where he was building his new residence – was a place where, if you had money, people would turn a blind eye to certain practices that would not go unnoticed elsewhere.

The palace he built was in the Mughal style, a glorious confection of arches, latticework and marble floors with ordered gardens, tinkling fountains, private courtyards and domed roofs. It was stunning. It was a suitable home for the finest collection of women on the planet.

But why women? What so excited John about collecting them? Well, the answer is severalfold. To begin with, he was straight and so they excited him sexually. He loved looking at women and he loved being with them. Alas, the feeling was not always reciprocated. He’d had several relationships in his time, but all the girls had left him for another, citing reasons such as “selfishness” and him being “a bit weird”. So John, poor fellow, struggled to trust women. He valued fidelity but none of the women that he’d been with had displayed it. But in a harem, they would have no choice. And besides, the women he’d been with before had been… well, the kind of women that a nobody can attract, which is to say, they had all been a far cry from the sirens of the silver screen and magazine that he lusted over.

But now, he was a somebody with a budget and a complete lack of moral scruples.

And the kind of imagination that could think out of the box, could be creative.

For you see, John Cobbler wasn’t just going to collect his women; he was going to do special things with them and bring them all to a whole new level.

Whilst enjoying himself with each and every one of them on the journey.

Vignettes from the Harem homepage

1). Lemon

The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal

The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal

(The Fourth and Final Chapter in the Venus Chronicles)

by Dave Potter

Introduction

The following tale is to be the fourth and concluding chapter in my four part Venus Chronicles. It brings together all the strains and ideas introduced in the earlier tales, and was inspired by comments by an Italian reader who wished to know more of the workings of the Society itself. Here we penetrate its heart and soul and hopefully enjoy the experience of doing so.

Whilst I do freely declare that this is the final chapter that I shall be writing in the Venus Chronicles, please do not let that deter you from adding to them yourself and introducing new depths, depravities and perversion to the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal.

Comments, as always, more than welcome.

Regards

Dave

Chapter 1 – Tragedy in Malmo

I suppose I should begin by introducing myself. My name is Elvira, Elvira Lundstrom, and I am, as you may have guessed from my surname, a citizen of Sweden. On top of that, I am also a cashier in the local bank, a widow, an enthusiastic hill walker, an avid reader and a mother. And it is the last of all those which concerns this story most.

As I told you I am a widow. Twenty five years ago I married Owe, the sweetest, gentlest man on this earth. And together we had a child. We’d always wanted two, but alas he died before that dream could be fulfilled. Still, one daughter is a greater gift than many are blessed with in their lives, so I can’t complain. And what a daughter she is, my dear, sweet, pretty Maria. Well behaved as a child, always polite and helpful, worked hard at school, and was not even moody as a teenager. All in all she was all that a mother could ask for and enjoyed a happy life until…

Until…

Until THAT day, the day that I shall remember all my life.

The day when my Maria disappeared.

I knew that something was wrong immediately. She was never later in coming home from school unless she was going to visit one of her friends – Martina, Gabriella or Gretcha – but then she always phoned home first. I waited an hour, then I called her classmates. ‘No, Mrs. Lundstrom, she set off straight for home just as she always does, she’s not here.’ Then I contacted the police. For a whole month they searched, I appeared on TV and asked for information. The officer speculated that she had perhaps run away from home, or committed suicide. But I knew my Maria too well, she was happy and contented. She would never do anything like that. ‘She’s been kidnapped,’ I protested. ‘Nonsense,’ said the Inspector, ‘There’s been no note, kidnappers always demand something, unless…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t ask him to. Neither of us wanted to think the worst.

Now I’ve something to tell you. A little admittance to make. I’m not ashamed of it but, well… I’d prefer it if you didn’t spread it around, if you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is that well, much as it is something that a middle-class, middle-aged, respectable Swedish lady shouldn’t be doing, for a long time now I have been a devotee of certain websites. You know the sort I mean, well, perhaps you do. I don’t go in for perverted pictures, porn, that sort of stuff, no not at all. But well, as I said before, I am an avid reader, and well, I do like reading those stories, the ones with sex in them, you know what I mean. Well, there it is, it’s out, and well, that’s it. I like daily to read them, on sites such as Storysite, Fictionmania, Tight Tales, LISA… LISA, yes, LISA. The Long Island Staylace Association; a site dedicated to corsetry, both its lighter and darker sides. I’d been reading on there, it often has good tales, fiction. But then some of the stories on there, well, they started to sound, more factual than fictional. I guessed that it was just my imagination, but well, there was this one writer – Dave Potter – and his stories. They were sick, about women being laced into Venus Corsets, dominated by men, that sort of thing. I am a feminist, I detest that sort of subjugation of women, and yet… and yet, much as they disgusted me, I kind of liked those stories. But they sent a shiver down my spine, as I said, they seemed too real. The guy seemed to be writing from personal experience.

There was a Society, a secretive group of individuals, male of course, who kept their women trussed up and armless. In one story he even wrote about them transforming a young boy into a girl and then putting him in a Venus Corset as well. They were all over the world – the States, Holland, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia – and they kidnapped people.

Kidnapped.

It played on my mind. Why, I know not. After all, aren’t women kidnapped and subjected to… well, by countless hundred, thousands of sick individuals. Why would it be Them who had taken my Maria. And yet… yet she was the type they liked, beautiful, young, submissive, doll-like with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Night after night I tossed and turn, unable to sleep, sick with worry. Then, I decided. The following day I quit work and embarked on my quest to get my darling daughter back.

Chapter 2 – The Search Begins…

I hooked up to the internet and printed the stories out. There were three in total that concerned the Society – Araksia, Gabrielle van Hessel and Ihbat. The author, Dave Potter, had also written some other stuff, but none of it concerned what I was interested in, although some of the themes were similar, the usual corsetry, domination, the doll ideal. It was all, as I said before, pretty sickening, especially to a dyed-in-the-wool feminist myself, and yet at the same time… well that’s escapism for you isn’t it? After printing them off I sat down and reread them. As I mentioned earlier, I am an avid reader, but I should have been more precise. I am an avid reader of detective stories, and finally, here was my chance to put all those techniques garnered from Agatha Christie, van Wettering and Ruth Rendell novels into practice. And as the only clues I had were the stories, I knew that that was where I had to begin. I got out a notepad and wrote down my findings.

Araksia: The story concerns a young Armenian girl tricked into marriage and taken to America where she is forced to live an armless existence somewhere in California. Later on she moves to a palace somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Her husband is also an Armenian.

Gabrielle – Set in the 1830s. Concerns a Dutchman, van Wettering who marries a girl, Gabrielle, who has been brought up under her uncle’s instruction, forever restrained in some way, not necessarily the arms. The Society is not mentioned.

Ihbat – Concerns a Greek boy, kidnapped on his way home from school (!), who is taken to some school, (location unknown), transformed into a woman of Purdah, (living separate from society, veiled, etc). Then married off to a man, (Society Member), living presumably in Arabia.

Points to Consider.

The Society: Full name The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal. According to I. Set up by van Wettering along with his father-in-law after the events described in G. Uses the Venus de Milo as an ideal of feminine perfection. Lots of details given of how women are subjacated, methods of restraint etc. May be useful later, not now though. The Society seems to use kidnapping, internet marriage and also hints, (in Araksia), of searching in brothels, etc, to procure it’s ladies. The Society is very international in character; members, wives or their maids mentioned from Saudi, the States, Armenia, Bulgaria, the Netherlands, Colombia, Greece, the Philippines and Vietnam.

Dave Potter: Who is he? The name is English but probably a cover. Writes in English, (but there again so do I). Other stories set in Germany, Russia, Britain and India. Int. note: Uses British spelling, thus prob. not American.

Locations: These are many and varied. Armenia, California, Saudi Arabia, Hungary, Indonesia, the Netherlands, Greece. Many descriptions vague, (e.g. Californian mansion, Saudi), but one place minutely described. Zierikzee, Netherlands.

I knew where to start my search.

Chapter 3 – Zierikzee

I took the Volvo out of the garage and started up the engine. Ten hours later I was crossing over the bridge that leads to Schouven Duiveland, the island on which the town of Zierikzee stands. It was easy to tell that I was headed in the right direction as the tower of the mighty St. Liven’s church, the coffin-like House of the Lord where Gabrielle and Wilhem van Wettering supposedly married, towered above the pancake-flat Dutch landscape. I drove the car into town as the light was failing, and booked into a small hotel in the ancient centre.

The following morning I arose fresh and early and ready to embark upon my quest. In Potter’s story two locations were described with much realism. In order to gather if the tale was true, or at least based on the truth, I had first to check them out. And so it was that I went down to the friendly lady on reception and asked her the whereabouts of the café know as ‘Der Vlinder’.

“Ja,” she said, “it is near here, by the harbour. But Madame, why do you wish to go there? It is a place for rowdy youngsters where the music is too loud.”

I left the hotel and walked to the café. There it was, where she said it would be, and in an old building too, easily eighteenth century. It was closed so I rapped on the door. After a moment or so, this opened and an elderly cleaning lady rapped out a torrent of Dutch to me.

“Excuse me Madame, sorry, but I am from Sweden. I don’t speak Dutch.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, her face softening a little and switching into that fluent English which the Dutch, like us Scandinavians, are famous for. “I said, the café is closed. Please wait until tonight.”

“I don’t wish to drink, Madame. I am tracing my family history. Some ancestors of mine were Dutch and they held the lease at a café in Zierikzee called ‘Der Vlinder’ two hundred years ago. I want to see if this is the place.”

“Surely it is,” replied she, “for this building is over three hundred years in age and has always been known as ‘The Butterfly’.”

I thanked her and went on my way.

My next stop was the town’s small museum situated in the old jailhouse. I entered and wandered around gazing at the exhibits detailing past floods and fishing vessels. The curator, a friendly elderly lady, came up to me as I was admiring a scale model of the town in the nineteenth century.

“Excuse me for intruding, Madame,” she said, “but am I right in thinking that you are not Dutch?”

“You are Madame,” I replied. “I am coming from Sweden.”

“And how are you finding Zierikzee?”

“Very pleasant.” Here was my chance. “Actually, I am trying to trace some Dutch ancestors of mine, the van Hessels. They were prominent citizens in this town in the nineteenth century. One, a girl named Gabrielle, married a Wilhelm van Wettering in the Church of St. Liven. The van Wetterings were also prominent. I want to find out where the van Hessels lived.”

“Maybe I can help you?” she said, before disappearing into a back room. Approximately ten minutes later she returned, carrying an ancient, leather-bound book. “Here we are,” she said, “Wilhelm van Wettering of Batavia in the East Indies, married Gabrielle van Hessel, Ward of Jacob van Hessel, of 12 Wielingenstraat on May 29th, 1831 at Sintlivenskirk.”

“12 Wielingenstraat. Does that residence still stand?”

“Indeed it does Madame, it’s a fine old townhouse, well worth a visit.”

So visit it I did, ringing the bell of the handsome brick merchant’s house. A middle-aged lady answered. “Ja?” she asked.

“Hello. My name is Elvira Lundstrom, I’m from Sweden. I am here because I believe an ancestor of mine once lived in this house and if you don’t mind, I would like to look inside.”

“Really? What was his name?”

“Van Hessel,” said I.

“Oh yes, you’ve come to the right place. The van Hessels’ were one of the most prominent families in the town. I myself am descended from them. Perhaps we’re related? Please, come in!”

Louisa van der Laan, (for that was her name), proved to be an amiable and intelligent lady and I thoroughly enjoyed my tour through her beautiful home. Heading upstairs she showed me the room that I was interested in.

“This was van Hessel’s Study,” she said.

“Are those bookshelves original?” I asked.

“All the fittings in here are,” she replied. “Why?”

“Because I think that they might hold a secret.”

I poked around behind some books and lo and behold, I found the lever. I pulled it down and the shelves opened up to reveal a passageway.

“Well I never,” exclaimed Louisa, “in all my years of living here I never knew…”

“It leads to the harbour,” I said, “or at least it did once.”

We entered the passageway with a torch of Louisa’s. After several metres it widened and a chink of light could be seen in the wall. I put my eye to it. There was Louisa’s bedchamber. It was the peephole!

As I gazed through the hole, something hard touched my foot. I bent down and picked it up. It was a leather folder. “What’s that?” asked Louisa.

“I don’t know,” said I. “Let’s go back to the study to find out.”

IN the study we opened it up Inside were documents, handwritten documents, brown from age. I picked one out. They were in French, but I could make out the title as I had studied the Gallic tongue in my youth. It read: A Short Account…

“What does it say?” asked Louisa. “I can’t read French.”

“It’s some memoirs by an ancestor of ours,” I said. “Jacob van Hessel.”

“Oh! How fascinating! Can you translate it?”
”Given time, yes, but it’s very long. Can I keep it?”

“I’d like to say yes, but if it’s a heirloom…”

“Well then, may I photocopy it and send you my translation when it’s finished?”

“Of course.”

And so that’s what I did. Went to the library and photocopied the entire contents of the folder, before getting back in the car and returning to my home where my French-Swedish Dictionary was, and where I could decipher this, which I guessed to be the clue that I was after.

And I guessed right.

Chapter 4 – van Hessel’s Memoirs

A Short Account of my latter in life wanderings and the Establishment of the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal by Jacob van Hessel Written in the French Language so as to be Understandable to Men of all Nations and Incomprehensible to prying female eyes of my own.

And so it was that in The Year of Our Lord 1851, over a decade after young Wilhelm van Wettering departed from these shores, taking my niece with him as his bride, I at last, freed from my own marriage, the Lord choosing to take Mrs. Van Hessel the precceeding year, decided to embark upon a voyage to meet up with my much-beloved nephew through marriage and of course, his wife, once my Ward. And so it was that I boarded the good ship Eindhoven and journeyed from the Port of Middelburg, onto the Port of Batavia and from thence taking a smaller boat, chartered especially by van Wettering who I had prior informed of my intentions, to carry me onwards to his mansion set amidst the jungles and rubber plantations of the Island of Kalimantan, a part of His Royal Dutch Majesty’s Colony of the East Indies.

It was twilight as our schooner rounded the headland and drew towards the bay which van Wettering’s mansion overlooks. I scanned the scene with earnest enjoyment, marvelling at the sway of the lush green palms and being silently impressed with the very Dutch façade of the white villa on the hillside that was my niece’s home. On the jetty I saw some figures, obviously there to greet me, but as the craft drew nearer I cannot but admit to you that I became amazed. As I said before, this was the year 1851, yet any uninitiated arriver would be forgiven for being mistaken that we were but a century earlier. For those figures on the quay; my niece, nephew and several servants, I found to be all adorned in the costumes of the latter half of the Eighteenth Century!

And what costumes they were, particularly those of the ladies. My niece in particular looked spectacular, wearing a glorious satin creation supported by hoops that extended a metre or so either side of her person. Her waist was – thanks in part to the training that I myself initiated – as pleasantly miniscule as ever, and encased in a rigid, cone-shaped corset as was the fashion in those times. As I drew nearer I saw her breasts heaving up and down at an incredible rate, a sight which I must admit, brought back many happy reminiscences of  the years that that delightful nymph spent within my walls, fighting for her very breath and pleasantly restricted beyond all measure. I could see, even from a distance, that the costume that she donned, must have been awfully difficult to wear, particularly in the tropical heat. It was an exquisite creation of blue satin, (I later learnt off van Wettering that it was an exact copy of a court costume of Marie Antoinette), and supported by hoops that extended out almost a metre on either side of the wearer. My niece held her posture erect, her face, heavily made-up and expressionless, and her arms outstretched, holding the ends of her voluminous hoops. What struck me most of all however, was her hairstyle, powdered and ornate, and absolutely huge, no doubt supported by some sort of padding or framework underneath. It truly was a work of art, though conversely, it must also have been incredibly heavy on the cranium.

Flanking my relative were two other ladies, maids I presumed, in equally sumptuous costume, and two gentlemen, one of whom was of course van Wettering. They too donned eighteenth century dress, and ornate though it was, it looked far less cumbersome and considerably cooler. As I alighted from the craft, my nephew-in-law bounded forward to meet me and shook my hand firmly.

“This is quite the finest and most unexpected reception that I have ever been treated to in my life,” exclaimed I in all honesty.

“I thought that you’d like it. We are playing at being in the eighteenth century this month,” van Wettering explained, “and I must admit, it’s rather fun!”

“I can see,” said I, and turning to my niece, “and you my dear look exquisite. The tropical air seems to suit you.”

Gabrielle said nothing and remained expressionless. The only indication I got from her was a slight curtsey. I gazed at her face, heavily made up as was the fashion in those times. ‘How come she isn’t sweating in this intense heat,’ thought I, gazing at her ivory skin, as the salty droplets rolled down my brow.’

“Come! To the house!” exclaimed my nephew, and he, I and the other man, climbed into one of the two waiting coaches. The ladies moved, pleasingly slowly, towards the second.

“Jacob, meet Dimitur Gruncharov, my best man and friend, and co-plotter in all my evil endeavours. A native of Rumelia in Turkey, I employed him the first week that I came here and it was the best move that I ever made.”

I turned to the other man, a dark South Slav who bowed and spoke, in admiral Dutch, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. Van Wettering speaks very often and very highly of you.”

“So, what do you think of your niece these days then?” asked van Wettering. “Am I keeping her right as you asked me to?”

“Well Wilhelm, judging by that remarkable display, I should imagine so. Her waist was pleasingly minute as ever, and that dress… well… it looked most unwieldy. How could one wear it I know not. And yet her face, why, she seems not to have aged a jot since I put her into your care, and what’s more, she was not sweating under all that material.”

At this Gruncharov and van Wettering burst into laughter.

“What’s the jest my good men?” asked I.

“Her face? Her face! Jacob, you never saw her face! Ok, I will admit that she is wearing the years well you shall see that soon enough for yourself, but you haven’t done so yet. That ‘face’ of Gabrielle’s that you saw today was a mask. When she arrived here a decade ago I had, inspired by you my dear fellow, an expert Javan mask maker sculpt a series of masks, complete with exact replicas of my erect manhood to silence her mouth, of her but in a variety of different styles. That one was the one done in eighteenth century style, with the heavy make-up, patches, that sort of thing. I also have ones representing this century and the sixteenth century. That way, no matter if she ages or not, she may always appear to me the vision of loveliness that she was when I first met her.”

“And she may trouble you no more with her complaints,” added Gruncharov.

“Well!” exclaimed I, “Van Wettering, you are a genius. Pray tell me, what other hidden extras did you hide in that costume then?”

“Oh not many Jacob, after all, it was overpowering enough, particularly the hairstyle and fifteen centimetre high heels, but yes, there is a little. Her arms, held ramrod straight out, holding those enormous hoops. The hands are secretly tied to the hoops and there are steel bars in the sleeves. They are thus immobile. And her fine breasts, heaving up and down in that low cut dress. Why they are visible are they not?”

“Indeed, and pleasingly so.”

“But what is not visible are the rings through her nipples that prevent them from popping out!”

“A masterpiece!” I cried.

That evening we dined in the magnificent dining room of van Wettering’s new home, whilst he fed his wife sat majestically and uncomfortably between us. Afterwards we retired, ostensibly for port and cigars though really for another purpose entirely, a pastime that I had introduced Wilhelm to years ago at my house, namely a little session of  ‘Peeping Tom’.

“Of course, when I was designing this mansion, I had some secret passages added,” he commented with a wry smile, as he opened up a hidden door in his study that revealed a tunnel leading to the ladies’ chambers. “However, and I hope that this doesn’t offend you at all sir, whilst I have copied your most excellent idea, I have also taken the liberty of adding some minor improvements.”

I was intrigued to see what they might be.

The passage terminated in a small and pleasant anteroom that was certainly an improvement on the dark cramped space from where I had watched my niece be ‘prepared’ in the past. In the room were two comfortable chairs, (“Gruncharov usually joins me,” van Wettering remarked, and inbetween them a fine polished table stocked with port wine and glasses. In front of the chairs was a large glass window showing a fine uninterrupted view of a lady’s dressing chamber.

“That,” explained my nephew-in-law, “is a one-way window. To my niece and all other occupants of that room, it appears merely as a large, ornate mirror.”

More confusing than the window however, were two round holes lower down in front of each chair.

“What purpose do those serve?” asked I.

“If you’ll excuse me, please do not be prudish, but if you would release your manhood from your trousers and place it in the hole in front of your chair then you will find out.”

A little shocked, I nonetheless did as instructed, and to my surprise, as soon as it was through, something enclosed my erect member. Or to be more exact, a warm human mouth! I looked at Wilhelm for an explanation.

“Two beautiful Batavian virgins that I bought for this purpose. I’ve been saving them for your visit. You may ravish the one you choose later on this evening in your bedchamber.”

Oh! The joys of colonial life! And the generosity of my nephew-in-law. I thanked him warmly and settled down to watch the entertaining spectacle of my niece being stripped of her restrictive clothing, laced into an excruciatingly tight night Venus corset so that she appeared entirely armless, and them bundled into a tight and extremely hot cocoon that rendered all her senses unusable, and the only part of her visible the huge and unwieldy hairstyle which could not be taken down as it would taken around five hours to remake the following day should it be done so. And thus it was that my beleaguered niece was forced to sleep hot, sticky and immobile with her head bent at a strange and uncomfortable angle whilst my manhood was being quenched by one of Batavia’s comeliest. Indeed, it was a superb start to my vacation.

The following morning, quite late on, as I demanded young Nurmusari pleasure me several times before going down to breakfast, I joined van Wettering for what he assured me would be the highlight of my trip: a ride out into the country.

“I never knew that you were much of a horse rider,” I stated.

“I’m not,” replied he with a sly wink.

All was soon revealed when I entered the first of his ‘stables’. In it, instead of the manger and straw that I expected, I found a simple bed, and lain on that bed, a girl. A beautiful girl, a native girl with large dark eyes and luscious black hair. And a restrained girl, oh, how restrained! She wore around her torso a wonderfully tight corset, and one her feet long black leather boots that ended in horses hooves, (“her feet are on tiptoe inside,” Wilhelm commented). Her arms were bound in a tight and most becoming mono-glove that seemed to be causing her some discomfort, whilst in her mouth of placed a large gag. She looked pleadingly at me and I smiled.

“Your pony for the day!” announced my host, picking the wench up and ordering Gruncharov to prepare her. “Her name is ‘Christina’.”

 He led her out by a leash attached to her collar. A moment later she was attached to a small trap in which I was to ride, blinkers preventing her from looking where she shouldn’t and a bit in her mouth instead of the gag.

“Is she ready?” asked I.

“Nay,” said Gruncharov, “I left the last – and most pleasing – preparation, for you to carry out.” The Rumelian handed me a horses tail that ended in a plug.

“You don’t need to tell me where this goes I said, and bending the girl over, I inserted it into her anus causing the wench to grunt and groan. Meanwhile, two other ‘ponies’ and traps had been brought out and Gruncharov and van Wettering had jumped in them.

“Off we go!” said the plantation owner, and so off we went. I won’t say that it was the fastest journey I have ever been on, but it certainly was the most fun, and exploring van Wettering’s extensive grounds behind a sweating, comely pony-wench was indeed a fine way to spend the day, giving those rounded brown buttocks a little spank with my whip ever now and again.

That afternoon after our riding session, van Wettering took me with him to some cottages set deep within the depths of his rubber tree forest.

“Why do you take me here?” I asked.

“You shall see,” replied he.

We opened the door of one, a humble dwelling, and found inside two seamstresses sewing a fine silken dress together. They were pretty things, European not native, and one sported signs of having been rodgered in the past, a rounded stomach indicating a bun in the oven as it were.

“Here is where Gabrielle’s remarkable gowns and other clothing are created. This cottage contains the seamstresses, the adjacent one the corsetiere. We have also a cobbler, hoisiere and sewer of more basic items such as petticoats. The outfits are designed however, by Gruncharov and myself. This one I – though perhaps not my niece – am particularly looking forward to. It is an exact replica of a gown of the Spanish Enfanta, similar to those worn in those fantastic paintings by Velasquez.

“I had seen the paintings he talked of during my travels in the Iberian peninsular and had admired the costumes depicted. “My those gowns were fantastic,” I declared. “Graceful and elegant yet easily over two metres in width. Were they not the widest dresses in history?”

“They are and will continue to be so until this one is completed. We have widened this accordingly in line with Gabrielle’s slightly larger frame.”

“Where do the girls come from?” I asked, nodding towards the comely seamstresses.

“Gruncharov provided them. They are expert Balkan dressmakers from a village near to his own. And aren’t they something to look at as well?”

“Indeed,” agreed I.

“I know, and deliberately so,” said Gruncharov, “for what we aim for here is to create a legacy.”

“A legacy?”

“Indeed,” explained my nephew-in-law, “a legacy. We intend to breed these fantastic artists and so the skills they possess, as well as their good looks, may be passed down to us over the coming generations.”

“But why?” asked I in puzzlement.

“Oh, my dear Jacob, I shall explain it all in due course. But all I need tell you now is that I have a big idea. That one there, with the babyfull belly, why Gruncharov here is responsible for it. I have the other one for my recreation. There is however, a spare one in the other cottage.”

“Well, if she is as comely as these two, may I not have the pleasure?”

Van Wettering looked at me in mock disgust. “Is not the nubile Nurmusari enough for you, you old leech?” he asked with a laugh. “Oh course Jacob, I was only joking. I shall have them both, Nurmusari and Ralitsa, brought to your room tonight and you may make your choice.”

We went on to view the other cottages before returning to the house for a magnificent diner in which I was allowed to feed my niece who was clad in a stunning yellow satin gown. Afterwards, over coffee in the drawing room I sat down next to my one-time Ward and asked her how she found life in the Tropics?

“And how do you think, Uncle? I never thought that their could be a man more perverse and chauvinistic that you, but my luck seems to have been to marry him.”

“Do you not like your nice clothes and life of ease?” I asked.

“Would you like to be bound immobile and dressed up like a child’s plaything everyday, and then be ravished by a man you hate at night, with no hope of ever escaping?” asked that pretty girl.

“Oh no, but thankfully that is not my lot, my dear Gabrielle,” I replied with a laugh. “I suppose it is yours though, and alas my sweet niece, you’ll have to get used to it.”

She said nothing but put a sulky glare on her face instead. In no mood to tolerate such behaviour, I grabbed her gag from the table and pushed it in her mouth.

“Much better!” declared the amiable Gruncharov with a chuckle.

We retired soon afterwards and I was most shocked when I walked into my bedroom to find hanging from large ceiling hooks on either side of my bed, two black leather cocoons, which judging from their shape, both contained comely wenches squeezed into immobility. I removed the face panel from the one to the left and discovered by beautiful brown-skinned Nurmusari inside. On the right I unearthed a handsome Balkan maiden, presumably the seamstress that van Wettering had mentioned. After twirling them both round for a moment or two trying to decide who to grace with my manhood that evening, I eventually settled on the European, whom I let down and unwrapped, before ravishing in my own unique way whilst her partner was left dangling from the ceiling all evening, grunting and groaning occasionally to remind us of her prescence.

I could go on forever really about that trip to van Wettering’s mansion, a trip that lasted two months and contained all manners of perversion, some that not even I could have imagined. I always knew that I had chosen well with Wilhelm as my heir as it were, but never had I realised just how well. Towards the end of it all though, one evening, sat smoking and sipping wine in the Peeping Chamber whilst two lovelies brought in from Batavia that week gave us pleasure, van Wettering brought up the idea that would change both of our lives and hopefully those of many more men for decades to come.

“Jacob,” said he, “you have tried many a form of perversion, restricted women in countless ways and what not. Pray tell me, which particular method is your favourite?”

I sat and thought awhile whilst Nurmusari sucked tenderly on my tool. “Why Wilhelm,” I said at last, “I think that it must still be the restriction, the rendering useless as it were, of the arms.”

My nephew-in-law clapped his hands. “Jacob,” he declared, “I am of the same thought. Can their be anything finer than it? The Venus corset, mono-glove, even that ingenious balloon-sleeve device that you cooked up. They all excite me like naught else. Look at our Gabrielle now, does she not look as pretty as any picture?” My niece was by now laced tightly into a Venus corset. She looked, as her husband had said, exquisite.

“I agree entirely,” I said, coming into the Batavian’s mouth. “But what of it?”

“Jacob, I have a proposal to make. You like the armless female. I like the armless female. So does Gruncharov. So do several other gents that I know. In my reckoning, there’s a great number, if not a majority of the world’s males who are excited by it as an ideal. However, my friend, how many of these delightful creatures does one come across?”

“Far too few Wilhelm, far too few.”

“Indeed sir, far, far, far too few. Ok, here, in the colonies one can proquire girls, beautiful girls indeed, for our activities, but elsewhere? As you well know, in Europe it is a far harder task, and indeed, though you managed it yourself, bringing up women as you brought up my wife, in a civilised country is becoming alas, incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Am I correct, sir?”

“Alas, Wilhelm, you are all too correct. This repulsive rising tide of women’s rights…”

“Indeed uncle, it disgusts me. At this rate our mode of existence will be totally obliterated within a decade.”

“Totally…”

“Unless we do something about it?”

“Something about it? Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I mean Jacob, unless we take measures to preserve our noble way of keeping women.”

“What sort of measures?”

“Uncle!” There was a light in his eyes and a zest in his voice. “I propose a society, a society that we shall form. A society that ensures that the armless female is not lost to the world forever. I propose the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal!”

And so it was born.

We spent the rest of that trip laying the foundations. It was a society, a secret one. By its very nature and with the enemy of Womens’ Liberation to combat, it had to be. We were to pick, to invite members in. And they had to be rich. To keep women in the straits that we demanded required a lot of capital. And besides, the rich are also influential. If you’ve those at the top in with you, then governments are not a problem. The rules were simple:

  • All wives of Society members shall be kept in a state whereby their arms are rendered useless at all times.
  • All members must forbear to talk about the Society to all non-members at all times.
  • All members must pay a one-off fee of a million Dutch guilders to the Society for the purpose of maintaining the Society Headquarters and Training Centre.
  • Society wives who escape from our clutches must be either recaptured or terminated before they can tell of our secrets. Their husbands will be held entirely responsible for this.
  • Any manner of arm restriction is permissible, so long as it is total, (i.e. handcuffs not permissible).

The Society Headquarters and Training Centre that I mentioned were to be based, of course, at van Wettering’s Kalimantan Estate. From the very outset, he and I had realised that the proquirement of willing females for our noble endeavour was always going to be a problem. He had been lucky with Gabrielle, others could not hope to be so fortunate, for not only did we demand women, but we also demanded pretty ones. And pretty girls have to be handpicked and then, ideally, trained. In the acquisition of our females we would allow all methods, so long as they could never be traced back to our organisation. Therefore, kidnapping immediately became a popular one, and the lucky ladies would be taken from their place of capture to van Wettering’s home where they would be inducted into their new life under the auspices of Gruncharov who became the Centre’s Controller, before being found a suitable spouse from amidst our ranks. There also would be based our own dress and bondage-gear making amenities, the germs of which had been founded with the seamstresses and corsetiere of van Wettering’s mansion. Indentured to us, those girls and their offspring would prove to be loyal servants to our organisation over the years.

I write these words almost fifteen years after the day that I had that fateful meeting with van Wettering in the Peeping Chamber of his mansion. During those happy years the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal has grown in size and stature, until at the present day the number of our members totals around three hundred, coming from no less than twenty nationalities across the globe. Our Training Centre on Kalimantan is now full and Gruncharov loyally still fulfills his role as Controller with gusto and skill.

And I? I am now remarried, to a lovely young maiden named Tsvetilina whom we captured in the Russian Empire and whom has been without the use of her arms since the day that she wed me and left the Centre. I am happy in my marriage and my life, but alas not in my health. The doctor has informed me that my time on this Earth now numbers but months, and as, due to my sins, I foresee little home on the next, I am committing to paper now the words and deeds of my life so that it all may be preserved for prosperity. The Society I leave in van Wettering and Gruncharov’s safe hands. For the rest, I trust in God.

Jacob van Hessel, Zierikzee, The Kingdom of the Netherlands, 1875 AD

Chapter 5 – Kalimantan

Van Hessel’s words disgusted me. He, like van Wettering, was a disgusting, sick, perverted old man. If he were still alive I’d… To only think of women as objects, treat them like animals! He was an anathema to the human race, extinct, a dinosaur…? Or perhaps not. His Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal, that sick, sick secret organisation that he and his equally sick friend had set up, was it not still in existence? Sadly, it seemed that it was. Now at last I had some concrete evidence. Yes, in a way I was happy. I did have something concrete now in amidst that morass of perverted, sadistic filth. Filth, yes, that’s all that it was. Pure, unadulterated filth. And yet… and yet I had found myself becoming aroused. The idea of Gabrielle trussed up, helpless, dominated like that. The pony girls, the overpowering eighteenth century costume, the mask. I shook my head to dispel those disturbing, confusing thoughts from my mind. What was wrong with me? Still the constriction…

I turned to more positive things. Now I had some concrete evidence. And what’s more, some leads. The main one of course was van Wettering’s Mansion. So that was the headquarters, and it had a location: Kalimantan. I took out a map of the world and had a look. Kalimantan was the Indonesian name for Borneo, and it is a big island. Still, the mansion was by the coast and it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. After all, van Wettering had been a famous figure in his day. I called up SAS straight away and booked myself on the next flight leaving Copenhagen for Jakarta.

The heat was sweltering as I stepped out of the airport, but my mind was on other matters. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the port. Despite being tired, this was no time for sleeping. Unlikely as it was that the headquarters and training centre of this Venus society was still in van Wettering’s mansion, it was nonetheless a chance that I had to take. After all, if I hurried up, I might still find my darling Maria there.

I entered the Pelni Office, (Indonesia’s state-run ferry company), and asked to be booked onto the next ship for Kalimantan. “Where exactly in Kalimantan, Madame?” asked the friendly booking clerk.

This stumped me. Where exactly? It was a big place. I looked at the map behind him and opted for the most centrally located port town. “Pagatan,” I said.

“Tomorrow at eight-thirty in the morning, Madame.”

Normally I would have revelled in that fine voyage through the tropics, I being a seasoned traveller, never happier than when in strange climes. However, disturbing thoughts of my darling daughter being in the clutches of those sick men prevented any happiness, and it was with relief when we finally docked at the sleepy, palm fringed quay. Immediately I went to the town’s museum and asked some questions about van Wettering.

“Wilhelm van Wettering? Oh yes, we know of him. He was a great figure in the days of the Dutch Occupation. He was a very rich man, owning many plantations of the rubber, and carrying much power with the Dutch government.”

“Where did he live? I heard that it was on Kalimantan somewhere?”

“You heard correctly Madame, his house was not so far from here, only a hundred kilometres down the coastline. It was a large white villa.”

“Does it still stand?”

“Oh yes Madame, that it does. But unfortunately Madame, you cannot visiting this place.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“It is not allowed. It is owned by the government, well, one of the ministers anyhow. It is forbidden for all to go there.”

It seems like I had struck gold. ‘Forbidden.’ Why? Because of the sick goings-on there no doubt. I sauntered down to the quay with an air of achievement and went up to the boat owners. I wanted to hire a craft that would take me to that villa that very night. At first the prices they demanded were ridiculous, reaching into the thousands of euros, but eventually they started coming down. An hour later I was on a small fishing boat that I’d hired for two days for the princely sum of one hundred euros.

It was dark as we neared the mansion. The building could be seen perched on the hillside but I ordered the man past it and instead we weighed anchor around a kilometre or so further on and dressed in a black wetsuit I swam to the shore. Then, donning a balaclava, I slowly made my way towards the villa of van Wettering. I soon came across an obstacle though, a ten metre high wire fence. Luckily I was prepared. I cut a hole with my clippers and wriggled through, disguising the hole with foliage as I am sure that the place would be guarded.

Near the villa I saw lights. Cautiously popping my head over a low stone wall I was confronted by a garden, a vast beautiful garden, a veritable Eden, and a garden filled with people. It looked like some sort of high-class cocktail party. There were men and women of all races and nationalities, expensively and sexily dressed chatting and sipping champagne. What was going on? Was this a Venus Society Gathering or not? It certainly didn’t look like it as everyone had full use of their arms, and yet… And yet on closer inspection, whilst all the men were old, balding and unattractive, the women, each and every one of them was young and stunningly beautiful. Just the sort of women that the Society would desire. Most were talking to the men and laughing, though a few were standing alone or with friends. Then a stroke of luck occurred. One of those beautiful women, a Latina stunning enough to grace any magazine cover, though with a glum look on her face, walked over and leant on the wall directly above me. I took a risk.

“Mmmph, mm, mmmph!”

“Shhh! Shhh!” I said. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to ask you some questions.”

The woman that I’d grabbed and pulled over the wall and into the undergrowth ceased wriggling and stared at me. I took my hand off her mouth and whispered, “See, you can trust me. Please trust me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know, this place, these people, what’s going on here?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Is it an Indonesian government party?”

“Indonesian government. We are in Indonesia?”

“Yes. On Kalimantan, Borneo. Didn’t you know?”

“No, no. They told us nothing.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know, honestly.”

“So why are you here?”

“We were kidnapped. All of us. Well, all us girls.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell you. All I know is that I’m here. But I don’t want to be. Can you get me away?”

“Sure. I can but I will only do so on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That once away you’ll tell me all that you know.”

“I promise.”

“Fine! Let’s go!”

Within ten minutes we were back on the boat. Then Ana Rosa told me her story.

Chapter 6 – Ana Rosa de la Torre

“So, my name is Ana Rosa; Ana Rosa de la Torre. I am from Mexico. Anyway, I had a normal life, we lived in Mexico City. I was a middle class kid, lived with my parents and sisters and brother. I am sixteen. I was at school. Anyway, one Sunday I was at Mass, we go every Sunday. But afterwards I was walking home. My family were not with me. They’d gone to visit my grandmother on the other side of the city and had attended the six a.m. Mass instead but I had been lazy, and besides… I had homework to finish. So, I was walking back from Mass and then I felt this prick in my back. Like an insect bite or something. Well, then my world went dizzy and I fell. The next thing that I knew, I was there.”

“Where?”

“That place that you just rescued me from.”

“Right. Continue please.”

“Anyway, so I was there. I woke up in a room. A nice room with sunshine streaming in. I was lying on a double bed. I was wearing only my underwear. I sat up wondering where I was. Beside the bed was a little table. On the table was a note. I read it. It was in Spanish. It said, ‘Take a shower, put on the bikini and come to Room 208.’ Well, what was I to do but follow? So, I went to the shower, washed myself and then put on the bikini that was lying on my bed. It was a tiny one in black. Some girls like that, showing their bodies off to everyone and that, but I am shy and respectable. I felt naked with it on but what was I to do? Anyway, I put it on and went to Room 208 like they said?”

“And what was there, in that room?”

“A woman. A little older than me, dressed in a dark blue bikini, also very skimpy. She introduced herself as Tsvetelina and then asked me if I spoke English. I do, so then she started talking in that language. She gave me a drink of fruit juice. She explained everything.”

“What did she say?”

“That I was in this place, Eden she called it, and that it was my home now. I was never going to go back to Brazil she said. I cried and she comforted me. She was a nice girl. She explained that she’d been through it all herself and she was here to help me cope. She didn’t want to be there either, but she, like me, had no choice. When I’d calmed down I asked her more about Eden. She said that it was just like the name suggested, a garden. It was a beautiful place and that we could stay there as long as we liked. We didn’t have to work or do anything and there were only a few rules. I asked her what these rules were. The first she said was that we always had to wear what they stipulated. I asked who ‘they’ were but she said that she didn’t know. Anyway, that rule was easy to follow as there were no other clothes on offer anyway, so I had to wear the ones they stipulated.”

“What sort of clothes were these?”

“Well, in the daytime bikinis, or on occasions skimpy one-piece swimsuits. And at night, cocktail dresses, sexy ones like this that I’m wearing now. That was all. Anyway that was the first rule. The second was no sex. Any of the men that came to us, we could be friendly with them, flirt with them, kiss them even, but no sex. If we had sex with a man, we had to marry him, that was that.”

“Why was that?”
”I don’t know, but that was what they said.”

“Did you marry?”

“No. Once you married you had to leave Eden. Only single virgins were allowed. Anyway I thought, well this will be easy, and it was. Everyday I woke up late, had everything prepared for me by my maid. I lounged by the pool, talked to the other girls and the men…”

“The men?”

“Yes, they were guests. They were always changing. Most stayed for a fortnight or so. They were usually old and ugly, but some were nice. We chatted with them, sometimes flirted, but that was all. Until…”

“Until what?”

“I met one. David he said his name was, though that could have been an alias. Anyway, when I first met him I wasn’t impressed. He was about fifty and balding, had a beer belly too. However, after a day or so, I don’t know why, but I started to like him. I fell madly in love. We kissed and carressed, but no sex of course. But oh, how I wanted him inside me, I was mad for him. I have fallen for men before, but never like this. He obsessed my nights and days. I was wet from thinking about him, but of course I couldn’t even pleasure myself to relieve the tension…”

“Whyever not?”

“This collar that I wear. It was on me when I woke up. Tsvetelina explained that it has a chip in it. If my hands move too near my privates I get an electric shock from the collar. So, no fingering. But oh, I was so mad, desperate for me. Then he asked me, would I marry him? At first I said no, after all, all of us girls know what happens. If you marry one of the men that visits then you are taken away from Eden and have to surrender to them completely. There are tales of them tying girls up and such. So, I said no, but day after day my desire for him grew stronger. Then, two days afterwards, I said yes, but then he replied that the offer no longer stood. A new girl had arrived and David was after her now. Then, I don’t know why or how, but my longing for him left. I fell out of love as quickly as I’d fallen into it. When he married the other girl I felt no jealousy towards her though at first I’d been ready to kill her. It was all so strange…”

“They married?”

“Yes, and a great affair it was. She wore an absolutely divine dress, like a fairytale princess. We all attended.”

“Where is he – they now?”
”I don’t know. After you marry, you leave Eden for good, and no contact is allowed with us.”

“Ok, so can you tell me, what did you do all day in Eden? Study? Work?”

“No, nothing. Absolutely nothing. We weren’t allowed to do any sort of activity except our daily exersize session to keep us fit. Maids did everything for us. All we were allowed to do was lie by the pool, drink fruit juice and look pretty.”

Her words reminded me strongly of how Araksia had been kept by Kevork.

“Ana Rosa, I want to ask you a question.” I took out Maria’s photograph from my wallet. “Have you ever seen this girl at all in Eden?”

“Oh my God, that’s her!”

“Who?”

“The girl who married David.”

“Was her name Maria?”

“Yes, yes. She was some sort of European. I only spoke to her on occasions. She seemed nice enough.”

“Ana Rosa, I am that girl’s mother. She was kidnapped. I am trying to find her. Can you tell me anything at all about this ‘David’?”

“Nothing really, he said nothing about himself. Only one thing…”

“What?”

“That he was some sort of East European.”

“Thank you Ana Rosa, thank you very, very much.”

Chapter 7 – Into Rumelia

I returned from Kalimantan to Jakarta without incident and after kitting Ana Rosa out with some clothes at my own expense I placed her on the next available Garuda flight to Mexico City, (also at my own expense), before getting on the plane myself and making my way back to Europe. Whilst sat on that jet liner, I mulled over what I had learnt and thought where to go next. My investigations up to that point had been of course, successful beyond my wildest imaginings. My hunch that the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal was a real organisation and not a mere work of fiction had proved to be correct, as also had my hunch that my own darling daughter was their latest victim. What’s more, I also knew in whose hands she now lay, an East European man named David. Was this David the same as Dave Potter? It certainly could be. I reread his stories and also van Hessel’s account. What struck me upon this reading was that Eastern Europe figured heavily in all accounts. Araksia was an Armenian, and she also met up with one Tatyana who was a Bulgarian. What’s more, the castle of the Victorian Ball was on the Danube in Hungary. Ihbat had originally been a Greek, i.e. a native of a country that borders what we know as Eastern Europe. What’s more one of Dave Potter’s other stories was set in Russia and he, like I, seemed to have an elementary understanding at least of that tongue. And finally van Hessel’s account. He repeatedly mention’s a Gruncharov, a native of Rumelia, who was van Wettering’s right-hand man and later on, the Controller of the Society’s Training Centre. Rumelia, where was Rumelia? I wasn’t sure. The name Gruncharov however, rung some bells. As I mentioned before, in my youth I studied Russian, going on an exchange to Leningrad when I was eighteen. And the surname ‘Gruncharov’ sounded to me very much like the Russian word for… for… Potter! So, that was it, this Dave Potter was perhaps a descendant of the original Dimitur Gruncharov. Find him and I’d find our Maria. But Dimitur is not a Russian name, and Rumelia is, well, as I said, I know not. Things would have to wait until I returned home.

Whilst they did I turned my mind to the Training Centre that I’d found in Kalimantan. This was most unlike what I’d expected. What had I expected? Perhaps some sort of sadistic girl’s school where the pupils are trussed up and restricted and taught how to give oral sex and such. Yet there one found nothing of the sort. Instead the women had absolute freedom, well, except for the sex, and indeed seemed warned about the men that they were about to marry. Why would anyone marry a man whom they knew would oppress and dominate them? Yet my Maria seemed to have done. It was so out of her character. Ok, so you fall in love, I’ve done that myself, but to marry someone whom you know will give you no freedom? My mind was confused and matters weren’t helped by the fact that the image of being rendered armless and helpless continued to excite me. In the end I decided to watch the in-flight film if only to take my mind off things.

Back at home in Malmo, I took out my atlas of the world and looked up Rumelia. It did not appear anywhere, obviously a defunct country. Luckily, I also had a historical atlas on my bookshelves, so I took that down and opened it up. Van Hessel was of course, writing in the mid-nineteenth century so I turned to Europe during that period and scanned for Rumelia. Around five minutes later I found it; a province of the Ottoman Empire in the Balkans, situated somewhere in the modern-day country of… Bulgaria! The Bulgaria which Tatyana came from and which speaks a Slavic tongue somewhat akin to Russian! And shares the same Cyrillic alphabet as the Russians too. Earlier on in my investigations, I had been puzzled by Potter’s spelling of the Armenian name ‘Araksia’, more normally rendered, ‘Araxie’. However, for Cyrillic users, an alphabet with no ‘x’, that is the natural way to spell the word. He had given himself away, I knew that I’d hit the jackpot once more. Eight hours later I was again checking-in my luggage at Copenhagen Airport, this time bound for Sofia on a Balkan Airlines flight.

As soon as I’d put my luggage in my room at the Sofia Hilton, I was down at the reception desk again with a very strange enquiry. “Miss, could you find me a Private Detective in the city who can converse in English?” I asked. She looked a little surprised but nonetheless scanned the phone book for a number and promptly handed it to me. An hour an a half later I was waiting for Mr. Petkov in a smart café on Boulevard Maria Luisa.

“I am looking for a man,” I said.

“Fine,” replied the detective. “What’s his name?”

“Gruncharov,” said I.

“Madame, that is a very common name here in Bulgaria.”

“I know. It means ‘Potter’ does it not.”

“Indeed it does. Your knowledge of my tongue is admirable. But it does not help matters. Does he have a first name.”

“I am pretty sure that it is ‘David’.”

“David is not a common name here in Bulgaria,” he said, pronouncing the ‘ga’ in his country’s name with much emphasis.

“But it is not unknown?” I asked.

“Madame, we are a Christian country. David is not an unknown name. Can you tell me anymore?”

“He had an ancestor, around the year 1850, named Dimitur Gruncharov. This man was an important man I think, and a traveller. He lived for many years in the Dutch East Indies, now Indonesia. It is conceivable that the present-day Mr. Gruncharov also has resided there, or in other places overseas.”

“Right,” said Petkov, jotting it all down. “Anything else?”

“He is rich,” said I, “very rich.”

“Then my job is an easy one,” replied the Bulgarian. “Rich people are few and far between in my country. Madame, I will research straight away and report back to you at the same time tomorrow.”

Chapter 8 – Vila Venus

‘David Dimitrov Gruncharov. Age 46. Address: Vila Venus, ul. Rakovskii, Kurdzhali district. The villa is a large one, secluded, near to the town of Kurdzhali in the south-east of the country. Estimated worth: 32 million euros. Money comes from shares in several major concerns, inc. Lukoil, Bulgartabak. Father a major figure in the former regime. Marital status: Single. Children: 3, from an affair with an unknown Portuguese lady, now deceased. Lives a hermit-like existence. Travels widely for business purposes.’

That was the file that Petkov had given me. I read it over and over again as the train rumbled leisurely through the Balkan countryside towards my eventual destination, and the opportunity to free my beloved daughter. I was worried, yes, and a little scared. Had not van Hessel written in his manuscript that escaped wives and all who know the secrets of the Society must be terminated by their husbands? Still, if needs must, I would finish Gruncharov off. I had a gun, supplied illegally by Petkov. A mother, when her back is up against the wall, will do anything to protect her children.

The train deposited me in the small city of Dimitrovgrad where I went to hire a car. Vehicle rental agencies were, like most other things I must say, a little thin on the ground in that forgotten little corner of the continent, but nonetheless, I eventually managed to locate a local plumber who agreed to let me use his rusty Lada for two days at an exorbitant price. The deal concluded I set off in the Russian automobile for the hills and the villa of my foe.

The day was drawing to a close as I finally reached the bottom of ul. Rakovskii, a tiny lane that led up into a wooded slope. I left the car hidden in some trees and made my way up the slope, clad all in black, including my trusty balaclava that had served me so well in Indonesia. The lane twisted and turned for a kilometre or so and I kept in the shadows until eventually, the property came into sight. It was a magnificent house, a huge collonaded stately home built in the Georgian style so popular in England. I crept up towards it and went around the back. There were lights on in some of the rooms, but most of the place was in darkness. Eventually I found a small backdoor. I tried it, but it was locked. Never one to be beaten, I got out a skeleton key that Petkov had also supplied me with and after several attempts, opened up the door.

I found myself in a kitchen. A large, huge, vast kitchen. One straight out of what the English call the ‘Victorian Era’. I crept through it and into a corridor, making my way to the heart of the house, my gun cocked and ready. Finally I came to a pair of huge double doors. There was a crack in the middle, and light shined through it. The room was occupied! Slowly but surely I inched the doors opened and crawled through them, shutting them noiselessly behind me. The room was quiet, no talking, no music, nothing. However, I was sure that it was occupied. I crept forward on all fours towards the ornate French three piece suite situated in the centre of the chamber besides the fireplace. Then I heard a rustle. I stopped. Someone was definitely there. A figure got up out of the armchair facing away from me. It was a female! She wore a huge crinoline dress in dark purple silk and her hair was done in ringlets. Her waist, I noted, was tightly corsetted, but her arms appeared to be normal, although they were gloved. The girl turned slowly and spotted me. We both gasped in surprise.

I had been expecting my Maria, and indeed the blonde ringlets that I had viewed from behind could easily have been Maria’s. However, the face that I saw was not that of any daughter of mine. It was a flawless, expressionless face of a young girl of twenty, with round blue eyes and ruby red lips. It was the face of a Victorian china doll!

“It’s alright,” I whispered in English, “I won’t harm you.”

The creature gave no indication of having understood me.”

“Do you understand English?” I asked.

The girl nodded.

“Who are you?”

No answer, nothing. Then I realised, this Victorian princess was not only not moving her lips, but since I had started talking to her, had not blinked her eyes also. I moved towards her and touched her face. It was false, plastic, a mask!

“You can’t speak can you?” I asked.

The girl nodded.

“Did he do this to you, David Gruncharov?”

She nodded once more.

“Are you Maria Lundstrom?”

She nodded and I gasped. Should I tell her who I was, that her mother was here to rescue her? I almost did but then decided against it. The shock might cause her to faint or something. “Follow me,” I whispered, this time in Swedish. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

I moved towards the door and my daughter followed, excruciatingly slowly. He had probably forced her into high heels as he did the characters in his stories, the sick individual that he was. I took her arms and assisted my child, her breast heaving all the time. We got to the door and I opened it.

Then the world fell away from me.

Chapter 9 – The Final Chapter

“Good evening Mrs. Lundstrom.”

He sat in front of me. I tried to move but could not. I was paralysed.

“I need hardly tell you why you are unable to move,” he continued, a perverted smile upon his face. “After all, you have read enough of my stories on the internet to understand completely about our immobilising drug. I will explain how you got down here though. In my youth I saw a very good film about a British spy named James Bond. In it a crime chief got rid of his victims by installing a collapsing floor under which lay a pool full of piranhas. I liked the idea and so installed my own, albeit minus the piranhas. It was that floor which you just stepped on and here is where the nasty man-eating fish should perhaps be. So, now you fully understand you predicament Mrs. Lundstrom.”

I did. I was terrified.

“Mrs. Lundstrom, I must say that I am impressed. You have proved yourself to be an admirable detective. You followed the clues and solved the case. I was chastened you know, by the Society Board, for writing those stories and posting them on the internet so that people could learn all about us. But, I never expected anyone to actually believe them, let alone, the mother of one of our wives.”

“You are a sick man Gruncharov,” I muttered.

“Oh yes, indeed I am, but lets be honest, aren’t we all a little bit twisted deep down inside. Take you for example. A seemingly normal, straight-laced, (if you’ll excuse the pun), Swedish career woman and mother. And yet didn’t you spend a considerable amount of your spare time reading the filth that I wrote for pleasure. What did you get out of it eh, Elvira? (You don’t mind me calling you Elvira do you? Oh good, I’m glad you don’t). Did you fantasise about being corsetted, rendered helpless, a slave to some perverted man’s desires? Hmm… it seems like you did.”

“Fantasies are one thing, reality is another.”

“Not in my world it isn’t Elvira, not in the world of the Society.”

“You are all sick, twisted perverts. Treating women like animals, how could you?”

“Animals! Animals? No, no, Madame, you get us wrong. You haven’t read our histories thoroughly enough. We don’t treat them like animals. How many animals live in the luxury that our wives do, never having to work, always dressed in the finest clothes? No, Elvira, our wives are not animals, they’re dolls. Toys to play with, such as your Maria was when you found her.”

“Let her go Gruncharov, take me instead, but don’t let my innocent little baby suffer!”

“Oh Elvira, you know I can’t do that. You know our rules, once a wife, always a wife. Hmm… taking you though, that might be a possibility. Ha! Ha!”

“You mental case…”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not. You however, have no mental problems. In fact, your brain is extremely astute. You found Zierikzee and van Hessel’s house all by yourself. You even found the document and translated it. Well done!”

“You knew about the document?”

“Of course we did. We placed it there. We still own that house actually, that lady worked for us. We put it there to lead you on to the next stage in your journey.”

“So it wasn’t genuine?”

“Oh, it was genuine alright, every last word of it. Do you know, you’re the first woman that our secrets have ever been revealed to. Don’t you feel proud?”

“And Kalimantan?”

“Oh we knew that you were coming there as well. The fisherman, whose boat you hired, he was one of us. In fact, he was the minister who owns the house. He thought a spot of role play would be fun.”

“And Ana Rosa?”

“Oh no, that was just chance. We didn’t plan for her to come over like that and for you to rescue her. Don’t worry by the way, she’s back in the Training Centre now. When she got to Mexico City she was taken into Customs, knocked out and transported back to Jakarta on the very same place that she’d arrived on, only this time, as freight, similar to how young Araksia was transported in my tale.”

“Was that true? Kevork, was that you?”

“Oh no, no. Kevork was just a friend. Araksia was never my wife, though I must admit to having her once, with his permission of course. I’d always admired that girl, she had something about her, as did her daughter. When she appeared stoned in that Victorian Ball, My! What a sight! But excuse me, I digress.”

“So if that was true, why are the Society not all in Saudi Arabia.”

“Oh Elvira, many of them are. But only the Americans. Just because of that little leakage, it didn’t mean that the whole worldwide organisation had to emigrate to the desert. America, hmm… an interesting country, and with a lot of very perverted people in fact. It had always been a fertile recruiting ground for the Society, but then that Clinton came in. He might have been immoral in public, but he cracked down on stuff like our activities. Luckily they booted his lot straight out and we’ve got the ones who talk a lot about God and morals but realistically only worship Mammon in again. I reckon we’ll be returning to that fair land soon enough.”

“And Ihbat?”

“The transsexual stuff is a new line, some people like it, particularly the Arabs. They like that Purdah School too. After all, for a wife of an Arab member of the Society it’s all so much harder. Not only have you got to learn to live without your arms, but also there’s all that cultural baggage to deal with, staying inside, the veil, all that.”

“Sick, sick. You’re all so sick…”

“Indeed we are my dear, and we revel in it. Me particularly. As you know, my family has a long history with the Society, and I must admit that I am currently very much enjoying my newest, and fourth wife.”

“However did you get her to agree to marry you?”

“Oh it was easy. Come on Elvira, didn’t you work out how our little Training Centre works these days?”
”No, I mean, they were allowed their arms…”

“Allowed everything, except the one thing that they want. Our gents go in there and just pick the lady that most turns them on. Then we start the treatment…”

“Treatment?”

“Treatment, yes, the Love Drug.”

“Love Drug?”

“Yes… Elvira, have you ever wondered why humankind with all its great scientific advances, has not yet been able to produce a drug that can emulate the extremely simple hormonal effects as falling in love? Why, because we have collared the secret and refused to let it onto the market. We have this drug, here is some in this syringe in my hand, that causes people to fall in love with the person that we choose. When a man picks his girl, we feed her a mild dose in her food and she falls in love with him. As time goes by we increase the dosage until she cannot refuse him. Even if he promised to torture her endlessly, cut off her breasts without anesthetic and feed her to the vultures after marriage, she’d still go through with it. Love is a powerful force my dear. Here, let me show you.”

And to my horror, he injected the contents of his syringe into my arm.

“I must admit,” he added, “that was a slightly stronger does than we normally give. I do hope that you will be able to take it. After all, I certainly don’t want you falling in love with me do I? The kidnapped falling head over heels for the kidnappers. Now there’s a term for that isn’t there, wait… what is it?… Stockholm Syndrome, that’s it? OH dear, perhaps you will fall in love with me after all? Isn’t Malmo rather near to Stockholm? Ha! Ha! Now, my dear, do you have anymore questions?”

“Maria, how is she? Is the mask permanent?”

“Oh she is happy enough, I think. To be fair I haven’t asked her, but I imagine so. After all, she always longed to be a fairytale princess didn’t she, and I have turned her into one. She is required to wear those fabulous gown each and every day, and her corsetting is coming on. Very soon she will be reaching fifty centimetres I hope. Then we might start cultivating a nice stem. But as for the other stuff, well, she’s no longer on the Love Drug, so I’m afraid I might repel her a bit but that doesn’t matter too much. We all have our cross to bear, do we not? And her Venus corset – she was in it when you met her, those arms were fake dolly arms by the by – well, she complains of it being uncomfortable. But fear not, the mask is not permanent, after all I wouldn’t wish to hide such a lovely visage as hers forever would I? No, she just wears that in the evenings or whenever I am away. It is an ingenious little device you know. It has an exact replica of my penis fitted on the back that fits snugly in her mouth. And the eyes, those beautiful large blue ones, they only allow two pinholes for vision. Good eh?”

By now though, I was not listening to Gruncharov. Instead I was concentrating on some peculiar changes occurring within me. Firstly, I could feel the paralysing drug wearing off. I could flex my fingers and toes and feel my stomach breathing. The second change however, was far more disturbing. I could feel myself becoming attracted to Gruncharov. I watched his eyes and mouth. They fascinated me. He was so handsome, so muscular, so mature. Yes, he was sick, sick as could be, but that was sexy. Oh, to be with a man like that, oh, to be with HIM! But Stop! Stop! I said to myself, this is all chemically generated. This is not like the true, real, everlasting love that you felt for Owe. And yet, yet… drugs could never produce anything like this. This WAS the real thing, he was adorable. That sick man who had enslaved my daughter was the gentleman of my dreams, the Knight in Shining Armour that I’d been waiting for! He was my King. I was jealous, jealous as hell of my bitch of a daughter who had stolen him from me. I wanted him, he should have been MY husband! Young bitch taking a man thirty years her senior! “Oh David!” I exclaimed.

He grinned. “My Elvira,” he said.

“Take me, David, take me now!”

“No, Elvira, no.”

“Why not?! Please!!!”

“Because I cannot…”

“Why not?”

“Because I only accept women without the use of their arms.”

I hesitated. I knew where this was leading. I tried to fight, but the desire was overwhelming. “Make me armless then!” I cried.

“No, Elvira, I will not.” Then he picked up a garment from the floor and gave it to me. I gasped in horror, I recognised it for what it was.

A Venus Corset.

“I will accept you, let you live with me and Maria for the rest of your life so long as you promise to wear this. I will not make you armless Elvira, you must do it yourself.”

I looked at the garment and contemplated the years of suffering, restraint, domination and horror that were before me if I placed it around my torso. And yet… yet all of that was nothing compared to the emptiness, the living death that was life without him.

I picked it up, placed it around my body and crossed my arms behind my back.

“Lace me up!” I said.

He smiled. “That I will Elvira, but first I must do something else. You must appreciate that an ugly old woman like you can never attract me, but instead can only repulse. Besides, I can’t have your daughter learning who her new friend is, can I? No, of course not, so instead I have had this mask made, perversely enough, an exact replica of your daughter’s virginial face, for you to wear. And this one by the way, is permanent. Welcome to my household, Elvira!”

And as he placed the plastic cocoon over my face and my Maria’s face stared back at me in the mirror, and my vision was reduced to two tiny pinholes, my arms bound and useless, I embarked upon my new life as a faceless, nameless, helpless doll in the mansion of David Gruncharov.

 

 

 

 

The Engagement Gift

The Engagement Gift

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter

emma at home

The following vignette was inspired by the pictures – particularly this one – included in Leticia Latex’s masterpiece Malpractice. That story has a completely different storyline, but I found the main character, Emma, so cute, that I just had to make up my own.

My story is set in an imaginary near future based on the ideas of William Rees-Mogg and James Dale Davidson in their book ‘The Sovereign Individual’ (1997). In the society they envisage, states have become another commodity and wealthy individuals can choose which entity they wish to have citizenship of. Most choose those that interfere with them the least, largely through a lack of taxation, but also through relaxation of laws they dislike. This creates a huge wealth disparity between the haves (the sovereign individuals) and the have-nots, not only of wealth but also freedoms. They also argued that we should return to more traditional family models with the implication that women become more subservient to their husbands. It should be noted that they see this dream as a positive thing; I view it as quite the opposite.

It does, however, make the possibilities for fictional misogynistic villainy quite exciting.

This vignette takes the form of a videocall conversation between seventeen-year-old Emma Kupp and her friend from the Paradise Hills School for Girls, Hitomi Smith.

Dave Potter


–  Hi Em, can I have a look?

–  Sure, if you must.

–  Wow! OMG, they are really big. I mean, I knew they would be big, but those are bigger than I expected. For an engagement gift I mean.

–  Tell me about it! I always knew that I would have to have a boob job to signify my engagement. I mean, we all do, right, but these are more than I expected.

–  They look great, Em.

–  Do they? Honestly? When I saw them I just thought they looked obscene and fake.

–  You say it like it’s a bad thing. Come on Em, you know what we were taught; we’ve had the same bloody lesson time after time. ‘A good wife displays her husband’s wealth and status with her body. She must be a living symbol of his standing in society.’ And Adrian is an important man. Your parents did well to get you such a match.

–  So they keep telling me, but he’s hardly a man I can love. He’s twice my age for starters. I mean, some guys, yeah, like Jake Rowland or Hayley’s big brother, Mike, but the thought of doing it with Adrian Jackson, him sticking his thing in me – yuck!

–  Well, get used to it, Em, ’cos it’s happening.

–  Don’t remind me. And he’ll be like pawing these puppies stuck to my chest and drooling over them and, eugh, it’s so unfair! I just wish I could be like one of the servant girls and marry who I want and do to my body what I want.

–  That’s life Em, but don’t be so glum! I mean, there are upsides to being Mrs. Jackson. You’ll never have to work or think; it’s a comfortable life.

–  Comfortable! You try getting comfortable with these beachballs stuck to your chest. They’re so heavy, my back aches and they seem to throw me off balance. And this is only the beginning; after marriage they’ll be getting much bigger. After all, he is a CEO of a global corporation so my body will have to reflect that. The doctor told me that these implants are what’s called expanders. There’s a small valve in each armpit and they get be filled-up continually that way. I’ve been told that, as soon as the skin has adjusted, I’ll be topped up and that will continue until there’s 6000ml in each one.

–  6000ml! Em, that’s massive! Is it even possible! Even Jenny Bailey from my sister’s year who married the CEO of Coca-Cola only has 5000ml and they say that she can hardly move with them and that they get in the way of even the simplest activities.

–  I know, tell me about it. I cry when I think what it’ll be like. I mean, I so enjoy playing tennis and working out in the gym yet even now these get in the way and when there’s a few thousand more millilitres in there… It is too much, it really is.

–  Don’t cry Em, you need to just get used to them. Besides, you’ll have servants to do everything for you and special bras which offer a lot of support. Anyway, don’t say anymore about it; I’m having mine done soon remember!

–  How big are you expected to go?

–  I haven’t been told yet, but Keiichi is as rich and important as Adrian, so I guess it’ll be pretty big, anything less than 3000 and he’ll be shamed. However, it’s not the breasts that I’m so worried about.

–  What are you worried about then?

–  Mum told me yesterday about some of his other plans for me. He’s very much a lips man, apparently. Of course, all that oral training we had at school will come in handy, but he really wants to make a feature of my lips. He has told her I’ll be implanted with an O-ring and that they will dominate my lower face. It seems he loves lips that are so huge that they press against the nose.

–  Eugh! That is so crass… although I’m sure you’ll look great with them. You’re so naturally pretty that you’ll have no problem pulling them off.

–  Now you’re the one who’s lying, but even if they do look ok, how am I going to be able to speak with them like that, particularly when you consider the tongue piercings. The sad thing is that the next time we see one another, I might not be able to even talk with you.

–  Oh, I’m sure you will. I’m having my lips done too, of course, but nothing that extreme. Besides, even if you can’t speak clearly, you could still write or type notes.

– I wish! Keiichi’s family’s females all wear monogloves as a matter of course.

–  To emphasise their dependence and lack of a need to work, I guess.

–  That and the other reason…

–  Which is…?

–  … which is the thing I am really scared about. I’m to be given an electrode treatment around my sex holes, nipples and mouth so that they all become hyper-sensitive and my orgasms become more extreme.

–  That sounds more like something to welcome rather than fear! I mean, I’m still a virgin of course, but I enjoy fondling myself and, I have to admit, these breasts make me even hornier. Even though I hate them for turning me into some sort of pleasure object, something in my brain reacts to them in a way that gives me the most incredible climaxes and when I am penetrated for the first time… Oh Hitomi, I’m rather jealous of you!

–  Well don’t be! I mean, being horny is all well and good if you can relieve the tension, but if you can’t…

–  And why can’t you?

–  The monogloves.

–  They’re only for public when you’ve got visitors round. Once they’ve gone then you can fiddle away to your heart’s content.

–  No Em, you don’t understand. The monogloves are a permanent thing in the Ichiro family. Sexual release should only be gained when the husband permits, and he only permits when he penetrates! I’m being condemned to a life of frustration and torment. Compared to that, I wish I was you with only big tits to worry about!

–  And I wish that big tits were the extent of my problems. Adrian has shown me a CGI mock-up of what I’ll become after marriage and it’s scary stuff. He’s a self-declared arse man and so I’ll be receiving implants there so huge that I’ll struggle to walk and sitting down will be like resting on two pillows. He’s even talked about hip reconstruction to accommodate the largest buttock implants possible. And then, to contrast them, I’m scheduled for rib removal surgery and permanent corseting with a forty-centimetre waist as the goal.

–  Well then, we’ll be sisters! I’ve been told to expect the same. It’s awful! I’d so wanted to bear children, but Keiichi has told me that he’ll use surrogates.

–  Same here. Doesn’t want to damage the canvas upon which his masterpiece is being painted was how he termed it. I’m destined to become some wasp-waisted, wide-hipped big-titted sex doll who will require assistance for the simplest of tasks, from getting up from a chair to going to the toilet. It is so unfair! Why is the world like this?

–  Don’t cry Em, please don’t! It won’t be so bad as all that, I’m sure. And even if we do get all that done and can’t speak with one another, we’ll still be friends, right?

– Right… I guess so.

–  And we’ll still have our memories of playing badminton in the courts and dancing at the school disco.

–  Yes, memories, we’ll always have the memories.

–  We will Em, and talking of that, let’s make some nice ones tomorrow. We’ve got PE after all and I think they’re planning on a park run. Let’s sneak off whilst Miss Marsh isn’t looking and give ourselves a bit of pleasure before our husband’s forbid it. Difficult though they may be to bear, I’m still itching to have a squeeze of those fun bags to see what they feel like!

–  You’re on, but only on one condition: I can test out your assets before they’re modified beyond all recognition.

–  It’s a deal! See you tomorrow, Em!

– See you, babe!

Emma and Hitomi at schoolEmma and Hitomi at school the next day

emma and hitomi meet up a year after marriageTwo years later they meet again to celebrate the birth of Emma’s first child (via a surrogate)

N.B. The first two pictures adapted from the work of Leticia Latex and the final picture from the work of Doll Project.

28/03/20

La Maison des Poupees: Part 5

Part 4

Chapter 21

Stood in the Great Hall of la Maison des Poupees were around thirty young ladies, all dressed in travelling costumes, muffed and veiled. Although the room was large and they were but few in number, the crowd filled almost every square inch with their wide crinoline skirts, no girl’s shoulder being within a metre or more of the next. At the head stood the Headmistress, Mme. Dorozhkina, and the other teachers.
“Mademoiselles!” she announced. “The time has come! For two years or more you have all been pupils in this school, being transformed from irresponsible girls into fine young ladies. You have been specifically prepared for a life of distinction, marriage to a man worthy of the honour and a life of leisure, fashion and motherhood. With the tools that I have given you, you are all more than adequately equipped to embark upon this life and to live it as a success. Should you fail, you have only yourselves to blame.” She paused for a moment for effect.
“In five days time you will all be attending the la Maison des Poupees Annual Ball, where you will hopefully find your mate and master for life. Should you not do so, then you will be rejoining me here for another year. For most of you however, this is goodbye, as my young ladies rarely fail to procure the man they need.” The Headmistress paused again and surveyed the room of finely clad ladies.
“And so we must depart. You must travel in fours in the carriages, three pupils and one teacher or maid. Upon reaching the railway station you will be assigned a compartment, where you will travel accompanied by one of your teachers. Ladies! You are dismissed!”
And at that she walked out of the room, the entire staff of the school following close behind. Arabella found herself ushered into a carriage with three other veiled girls and a maid whom she had never seen before. As talking, or indeed any communication, was obviously an impossibility, she resigned herself to looking out of the window at the vast forest that flew by, reminding her poignantly of the day when she had arrived at the school, a day which now seemed so long ago.
However, at the railway station, she was surprised to learn that the maid was going back to la Maison des Poupees and that she and six other girls would be travelling together in a compartment with a teacher. And not just any teacher, Madame Kovalsky!
They all climbed in and then waited for the guard to blow his whistle. The locomotive answered and the loud chuffing of
smoke and steam could be heard. Slowly the train drew away from the platform and rolled on towards the first stop in the girl’s long journey, Moscow.
“Well, ladies,” announced Madame Kovalsky, as they were underway. “We have a long time to be travelling, yes, and although you are together as students, I believe dat you don’t know each other yet. Eet will be boring just sitting here, so let’s talk, eh?” And at that she got up and undid the hooks that were buried within the fur of the girl’s muffs. The pupils found, to their delight, that their hands were now free once again, and they eagerly pulled them out and used them to undo their veiled bonnets and take off their gags. Arabella found herself sat in a large compartment, completely filled with billowing crinolines, each belonging to a pretty young lady of about eighteen years of age.
“Right now,” said the Singing Mistress, “Introductions please!” She pointed at a raven haired girl in the far corner from
Arabella.
“My name is Lady Rebecca Ross,” said the girl in a soft Scottish lilt. “I’m from Dumfries in Scotland.” The girls nodded, and Madame Kovalsky pointed to the blonde-haired young lady besides her.
“I’m Margaret Steveton.” Her harsh accent belied her roots which she then revealed, “Of, Baltimore in the US of A.” The girls nodded once more and the next girl announced, “I am the Countess van Zierikzee of de Nederlands. Pleased to meet you.”
“Je m’appelle Sophie Dacout.”
The next girl was silent and looked at her classmates with scared eyes. “Come on Lizzie!” said Madame Kovalsky; “There’s nothing to be afraid of!”
“I, I, I, know,” she stammered in a mouse-like voice, “it’s just that, well,well, what with having to stay quiet for, for, for so long now, well, I’m not used to, well, I’m not, well used to speaking you see.”
“Dat’s quite alright dear,” said the kindly teacher, “many girls feel like that after years behind the mask. Girls, this is
Elizabeth Hartley, a lovely girl, though a little shy.”
“Nice to meet you!” the girls said in unison and Elizabeth smiled.
“I’m Tatiana Goncharova,” said the next girl, “I’m from Saint Peterburg.”
“And I’m Emily Dickinson, of Staffordshire, Britain,” said the girl besides her. It was Arabella’s turn.
“My name is Arabella Hetherington, late of India. Pleased to make you acquaintances.”
The girls gasped.
“Arabella, the Arabella?” Emily Dickinson asked. Arabella was puzzled.
“Yes ladies, the Arabella indeed, the lady who defied Dorozhkina and cast off her mask!”
Arabella blushed.
“You are my heroine!” declared the American.
“Tres magnifique!” added the Frenchwoman.
“It was you who gave us hope to carry one!” said Lady Ross.
“You, were, v-v-very brave!” stammered the mouse-like Elizabeth.
And so the journey continued, and by the time they’d reached Moscow everyone knew everything about each other’s lives and had secretly swapped addresses so that they could stay in touch during their new lives. Arabella in particular got on with Rebecca Ross, and during the next leg of the journey to Berlin, they sat together, talking of Britain, the Raj, (where Rebecca had once visited an uncle), fashion, the terrible regime at la Maison des Poupees, the hated Mme. Dorozhkina, the tightness of their corsets, and the joy of being free once again, even if it was for only a short period before their imminent subjection to a husband. What the future held for them, in Paris and beyond, they knew not, but they enjoyed the pleasure of the train journey together immensely.
Once more, the redoubtable Madame Kovalsky had bought joy into their lives.

Chapter 22

Arabella sat down carefully, (she had no other choice these days), and surveyed her surroundings. To say that they were the grandest that she had ever encountered would perhaps be a lie, after all, she came from one of the finest families in England, but nonetheless, they were something spectacular and they quite overwhelmed her whom had just spent two years within the Spartan confines of la Maison des Poupees.
The Hotel du Nord in Paris, adjacent to the famous railway station of the same name, was one of the finest hotels in a city famed for its luxury. She didn’t even want to think about what the cost of the suite would be, it was all covered by the school anyway, and no doubt included in the fees, which rumour said were exorbitant.
The young lady had never stayed in any hotel quite like this before, but as Mme. Dorozhkina had explained in the lobby, they would likely do so again, and on a regular basis. After all, they were not children anymore, but young ladies of the highest degree.
She sat bolt upright on the velvet couch and surveyed the four poster bed, silken sheets and walls covered in mirrors and gold leaf. Oh how she longed to take off her bonnet and veil and see her transformed appearance in those fine, full length pieces of glass, but alas, the locking muff denied it. There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez!” she commanded.
Four maids entered, bowed submissively and then proceed to cover the mirrors in dark cloth. They then gestured to the
girl, and removed her veil, muff, bonnet and gag.
“Why have you covered the mirrors?” she wrapped in French.
“Mademoiselle’s orders,” one replied in her native tongue. They then proceeded to undress Arabella, (for the hour was
late), and led her to the lacing bar, where her tight travelling corset was removed and replaced with a lighter sleeping one.
Then the dreaded night boots that kept her toes en-pointe were pulled onto her legs and laced tightly. She was then
released from the bar and her arms fastened into the mono-glove. ‘Damn!’ thought the girl, who had been hoping that
that terrible instrument had been left behind at the school. Now she couldn’t get up in the night and look at herself in the mirror. Trussed up as she was, she could in fact do very little, and in fact to save time and energy the maid’s carried her to the fine four poster bed, placed her in between the silken sheets on her side and bade her “Bonne nuit!”
‘Never mind,’ thought our heroine. ‘Tomorrow is the Ball, the day I’ve been looking forward to for so long.’
And with happy thoughts of being carried around the hotel’s sumptuous ballroom in the arms of a dashingly-handsome young man, she drifted peacefully off to sleep.

Dawn had already arisen when Arabella was shaken awake by two French maids. She sleepily let the servants undo her
arms, and then rubbed her face with the wet towel provided. She then swung out of bed and allowed them to remove her night boots and replace them with a pair of high-heeled slippers which were far less irksome to wear and also permitted walking. Then, letting the maids help her, she stood up and walked over to the en-suite bathroom, where she had her corset removed, and then sank into the hot steamy water and let one of the serving girls lather and rub her down.
She then got out of the bath, and whilst one maid supported her, (as she could no longer support herself without the aid of stays), another shaved her body so that she was as smooth and bare as a boiled egg. She then returned to the bedroom and put her hands through the straps of the lacing bar and was hoisted onto her tip-toes as she was every day.
Mme. Dorozhkina had explained to the girls the day before that preparation for a ball is an all-day affair and so one must commence as soon as one is up and washed. Therefore, instead of the usual slip, (which she could not wear under her corset, as the ball gown left her shoulders bare), and the usual day corset, a beautiful yet terrifying creation of steel and silk was brought before her; her ball stays.
These were longer than any that she had experienced previously and smaller in the waist, and Arabella was dreading wearing them. Nonetheless, if she wished to come out in that heavenly peach gown, they were a necessity. She breathed in deeply as the maid, (who was struggling even to lift the totally-rigid creation), placed it around her torso and started to fasten up the busk.
Even without the commencing of the lacing, they felt tight and solid, and the weight of them quite took Arabella away. What’s more, there were three sets of lacing, one around the upper legs, one around the upper torso and bust and the third around the waist. That would no doubt cause some serious constriction! She was sure that wearing these she would be able to do very little as they held her totally solid from bust to knee, solid and, very soon, tight.
It had been explained that the lacing for these formidable instruments of waist reduction, could not be completed in one session, but instead would be managed in several bursts throughout the day. Nonetheless, as the French girl started to pull on the laces and Arabella’s already small waist got even smaller, she began to wonder if she would ever make it.
Eventually, just as she was beginning to feel light-headed, the girl stopped and tied off the laces. She took a tape measure and put it around Arabella’s waist. “Forty centimetres,” she announced. There was still a long way to go!
Our young lady was then let down from the bar and directed to a chair where she sat, (she could still do this as tightening of the lower laces had not yet commenced), where her breakfast, a piece of toast and glass of orange juice, was laid out.
Hungrily, she devoured this and then attended to her toilette before moving onto the next stage of the dressing.
The silk stockings that were drawn onto her legs were of the finest quality that she’d ever worn, but being unable to bend she could only feel, and not view that quality.
Next up was more tightening. The corset had settled itself upon her somewhat by now, and her body had moulded itself to the curves of steel. Nonetheless, the pressure was still great and that only increased when the French maid started to tighten the lower and upper laces. By the time she had finished, Arabella could hardly move, but that was nothing to what she felt when the laces shaping her stem waist were pulled once again. By now she could hardly breath and her cheeks were beginning to flush. Once more, the dizziness started to assert itself upon her, but once again, the maid stopped in time and placed the tape around her waist.
“Thirty-seven centimetres, mademoiselle, a reduction of three.” That was almost an inch, good progress, though nowhere near what was required to don the dress.
“How long is the stem?” she enquired.
“Seven centimetres, mademoiselle,” answered the maid. That too was coming on.
Once again, Arabella was released, and this time led to a board which she leant against and was strapped to. There was a shelf at the bottom for her to rest her feet, and this device was used, since sitting was now an impossibility for our
heroine. The maids tilted the board to forty-five degrees and then disappeared, promising to reappear in at eleven after mademoiselle had rested.
Arabella took the book that they proferred, a romance by Austen and started to read it, but, what with the corset constriction, she found concentrating difficult, so after ten minutes or so, she gave up, put it down and closed her eyes instead. Very soon she was dozing away, dreaming of the coming evening when she was to meet her partner for life.

Before she knew it however, they were back and, after a small glass of water, she was strapped back onto the lacing bar and hoisted into the air. This time the reduction came less easily, and the French maid really had to tug and pull until she was blue in the face. She was not the only one under exertion, Arabella now could hardly breath and her breasts swelled up and down with each pant. Nonetheless, despite the lack of air and feeling of dizziness, she kept her conciousness and did not faint, and eventually the maid tied the laces off once more and encicled our heroine’s waist with her tape measure.
“Thirty-six centimetres, Mademoiselle,” she announced. “Now, Mademoiselle, please come with me to the board, we must start work upon your hair.”
Arabella was lowered once more and led to the tilting board, upon which she was once again strapped. The board was then tilted to a degree so that the hairdresser, a famous one whom had been specifically hired by Mme. Dorozhkina for the day, could work upon her subject with ease.
The time being the late eighteen-fifties, Arabella’s hair was to be done in the latest style, and that meant ringlets.
“I will be giving you ringlets on either side of your head,” explained the stylists, “which later will be decorated with small flowers and ribbons that will compliment your dress. Ringlets are not only the fashion, Mademoiselle, but particularly appropriate for this evening.”
“Why is that?” asked Arabella, somewhat puzzled.
“Because, Mademoiselle, the hair, like any other part of a ladies’ appearance, symbolises something. Ringlets not only look pretty, but men associate them with childhood, as all little girls wear them. Childhood means innocence, Mademoiselle, and innocence is what the gentleman desires.”
“Oh,” said Arabella, quite shocked. She’d never realised just to what extent fashions were designed to pander to men’s
desires, from the small fragile waist, tight gloves, tiny feet and now ringleted hair. It seemed to her that all men want from life is a pretty helpless childlike doll to show off on occasions and to deflower. That thought made her feel sick, but what could she do?
Mme. Dorozhkina had perhaps been right. Perhaps she did need to become a doll, a mere accessory to a man, to get somewhere in life. Well, of that she knew not fully, but what she did know was that to escape la Maison des Poupees she definitely needed to become a pretty little doll, for one evening at least. And if ringlets were required to achieve that, that ringlets she must have!
“And on the back of the head we will be giving you a chignon, which means that your hair will be plaited and then curled
into a knot which will sit rather high. This too will be decorated Mademoiselle, and fear not, I know my trade well, you will look exquisite!”
‘Exquisite!’ That is how she would look. Whatever a man’s desires were, Arabella definitely knew that she wanted to look
exquisite, and she longed to be able to see what the hairdresser was doing to her. But of course, no mirrors were allowed and, instead, all she knew was a lot of pulling on her scalp, and the disgusting smell of her long hair being burnt by the curling tongues, as it was forced into the oh-so-fashionable ringlets.
It took about an hour for the hairdresser to finish Arabella’s hairstyle, but it would take a lot longer for it to set, and for that to happen, the minimum of movement was advisable. Not that she could move a great deal in the constricting ball corset anyway, and by now the girl had little strength, so it was decided to leave her be in her room until five when the final tightening of her stays and the fitting of the dress would commence. Thus the maids closed the curtains, doused the lights and left Miss Hetherington alone in that grand room, strapped to the board so that she may get a little rest.
But what rest could she get, compressed as she was and with the itchy, sticky feeling of her drying hairstyle on her head? Besides, she was excited. Unable to sleep at all she simply closed her eyes and drifted into a day dream, where she was an Indian princess in a fine palace by the Ganges, and tonight she was to meet her Prince, an esteemed warrior with bronzed skin, who although harsh and brave on the battlefield, was as gentle as could be with women. And she was his woman, and as the most beautiful princess in the land, he wanted no other. Her handsome prince and master took her up in his arms and carried her over to the fine silken bed where he placed her down with care and then climbed alongside her, his moist lips touching hers in a deep, loving embrace.

Chapter 23

The maids knocked and re-entered. Between them they were carrying something that made Arabella’s entire body tingle with anticipation: her peach ball gown. Once again she was led over to the lacing bar, strapped and hoisted. Then came the petticoats and tight skirt and after that the tiny ball shoes with their terrifying heels of thirteen centimetres. Slowly the maids levied them onto her feet for a shoehorn. Despite being used now to tiny shoes and extravagant heels, Arabella knew that these were something else. Already her feet felt as constricted as her waist, and she hadn’t yet put any weight on them. She dreaded the moment when she was to be lowered from the bar, but she knew that it would be worth it. After all, one must suffer to be beautiful.
And beautiful was what she was going to be, wearing the finest gown in Christendom! But to wear that gown her waist
must be smaller yet, it was time for the final tightening. The maids first completed their work on the upper and lower
laces, thrusting her now prominent bosom out even further, so that it now created a shelf, beyond which she had no view
downwards. The now huge orbs heaved as they fought for air, whilst lower down her legs were pinned together by the
lower part of the corset and the tight underskirt.
And that completed, it was time to perfect the stem. One of the maids left and came back with a burly-looking doorman
who, by the sweat on his brow, had obviously been tightening the corsets of most of the la Maison des Poupees students.
He bowed politely to Arabella and then walked behind her, grabbed the laces and pulled.
The poor girl could feel her waist getting smaller and smaller and with each tug her ability to breath lessened. Her face grew redder and redder and her breasts surged up and down in a frantic attempt to bring air to their mistress’s compressed lungs. Arabella couldn’t take anymore, she tried to called out for them to stop, but no words came out of her pretty lips. Then the world went black.

She was brought back to the living by the pungent odour of the smelling salts which the maid wafted under her nose.
Immediately she was aware of the intense constriction around her waist and she looked at the French girl with scared eyes.
“It’s finished, mademoiselle. Your waist is now thirty-four centimetres in diameter and the stem is ten centimetres in
length. You are ready to wear the dress, mademoiselle.” Arabella smiled weakly–she had done it!
Before the gown could be fitted however, they had to fit the fine corset cover, huge petticoat, (which was almost two
metres across), and more petticoats. Eventually however, she was ready and slowly she was lowered from the lacing bar.
The pain in her feet was intense as the weight of her body and clothing was transferred from the bar to her crushed toes, but she grimaced not and instead smiled as a lady of distinction should do. Then the sumptuous gown of peach silk and fine lace was lifted above her, placed over her head and fitted around her body, being laced tightly at the back so that the bodice seemed almost moulded to her skin and not a wrinkle was to be seen. Two maids then busied themselves fastening fresh flowers to the dress, whilst two more embarked upon the fitting of her tight kid leather ball gloves which had been placed in stretchers overnight. Doing this took a good fifteen minutes, and by the time they were finished, our heroine could hardly bend her arms or fingers at all. Her hands however looked delightfully tiny and helpless, and sure to excite any gentleman in the vicinity.
When the maids working down below, (who Arabella could not see due to her pushed-up breasts and a large pearl
necklace that kept her head held high), pronounced their work completed, the young lady of distinction asked if she may
now view herself in the mirror, as she was eager to see what she looked like.
“Non, non, mademoiselle!” cried the head maid, horrified. “What about your make-up?”
After two years of confinement behind a mask, Arabella had forgotten completely that women wore make-up, and the
thought of being perfumed and painted to perfection excited her. Getting a stool, the head maid started work on our
heroine’s face, transforming her long lips into a delightful rosebud, giving her lashes and lids colour and strength and
powdering her face, neck and breasts so that they were as white and smooth as porcelain. A soupcon of perfume was
added and a fan given for her to hold.
“Mademoiselle!” announced the maid, with a touch of pride. “You are complete!”
Two more maids whipped the cover off one of the long mirrors behind her and Arabella turned round.
The vision that confronted her was unbelievable. When she had last viewed herself she had been a scrawny, scruffy little girl with gangly legs. What stood before her now however, was quite different. A vast crinoline decorated with fresh flowers dived into a minute and unbelievably elegant waist that rose completely vertically for around four inches. This was was not only tiny, but perfectly circular in shape and the plain, stretched peach silk, undecorated and unadorned emphasised this perfection. And after this extreme of tiny-ness her body swelled out once more into two fine breasts that were the colour of milk. The fine dress with it’s perfect stitching and unmatched lace showed these off to their optimum.
By the sides of her waist hung two fragile, pale arms, enclosed in beautiful tight gloves that gave her hands the impression of being those of a doll. Above the breasts was a fine, elegant neck, encircled by a fantastical pearl necklace and then her face, framed by cascading ringlets. Her eyes shone like jewels and Arabella was certain that she had never seen aught so beautiful as that finely moulded visage, pale, fragile, doll-like and entirely elegant and desirable.
Gone was the child.
In her place stood a fairytale princess.
The shock of the revelation was too much for our poor princess and at that moment the stars came and the world grew dark.
She had fainted!

Chapter 24

The chandeliers glittered and the lights twinkled, illuminating the vast ballroom where some of the finest young eligible
bachelors in Europe were gathered, all eager to find a partner for life out of the girl’s graduating from the esteemed Mme. Dorozhkina’s la Maison des Poupees Finishing School for Young Ladies.
In groups around the perimeter of that large hall, those men and women stood and chatted politely. It is in one of those groups that we find our heroine, Lady Arabella Hetherington, alongside her new friend Lady Rebecca Ross, conversing with two young German nobles. The ladies giggle politely at the men’s jokes, before our Teutonic Counts beg their leave and head for the company of two blonde French girls who had marked them down on their dance cards previously.
“Thank goodness they are gone!” exclaimed Rebecca. “What a frightful pair of bores they were!”
“Indeed,” replied Arabella, “and they weren’t particularly charming to look at either. Count von Straffen had a bit of a
paunch I do believe.”
“He certainly did, though he was trying his best to hide it with a corset!”
“I noticed that too. Talking of corsets, how are you feeling?”
“A little light-headed and tired, but it’s not too bad. Nothing compared to my feet!”
“Yes, mine are killing me too. What I wouldn’t give to sit down for a moment or two.”
“I know exactly what you mean, but in these corsets?! Fat chance!”
“Well, keep going, here come to more gentlemen.”
“Hmm, the one on the left is quite dashing– he’s mine!”
“Not at all, you’ll have to fight for him!”
The two men approached the ladies and bowed deeply. Our two girls managed the best curtsey that they could in their
tight garb. It wasn’t much.
“Roland Machin at your service, miss,” said the handsome young gent on the left.
“Andrew Smythe,” added his friend.
“Lady Arabella Hetherington,” replied our heroine.
“And Lady Rebecca Ross,” added her companion.
Once the pleasantries were over and they got talking, it soon became apparent that Mr. Machin was rather interested in deepening his acquaintance with Rebecca, which left a disappointed Arabella with Andrew Smythe.
“And what is your line of business exactly, Mr. Smythe?” she asked out of politeness.
“Actually, I’m employed by Her Majesty’s Government.”
“What department?”
“Colonies. I work in India as an assistant to the Governor.”
“India! Where do you live?”
“In Delhi.”
“Delhi, a fine, fine city.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, I find it somewhat full of unpleasant odours and brown-skinned folk, but it’s alright I
suppose. Do you know India at all, Lady Hetherington?”
“Know it? I have lived most of my life in Mumbai! I was very happy there indeed.”
“You mean, you wouldn’t mind living there again?”
”Not at all, why do you ask?”
“Well most of the ladies here lose interest in me as soon as I mention India. They can’t bear to be separated from Europe.”
Arabella looked him up and down. Was she interested in him? He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he wasn’t really ugly
either. His manner was somewhat irksome, but which man is not? The way he kept talking to her breasts and waist was
also rather annoying, but she could do worse. A chance to return to India, that was better than any man.
“How any woman could lose interest in a fine man like yourself, I honestly don’t understand,” she lied. “In fact, I’m
surprised that you’re even talking to such a plain girl as I, I’d have expected you to be conversing with the belles of the
ball!”
“Oh, do not flatter me so, Lady Hetherington, and do not be so harsh on yourself. You look absolutely divine.” He glanced
at her compressed stem of a waist. “Absolutely divine indeed!”
“Well then, Mr. Smythe, if you then so highly of me, then I hope that you will ask me to dance with you soon.”
“Oh Lady Hetherington, I do apologise! Please, will you give me the pleasure of the next dance?”
“Indeed I will, Mr. Smythe. To the dancefloor!”
And at that he clasped our young lady of distinction around her miniscule waist and led her off onto the dance floor. And as they whirled around to the tune of the Blue Danube Waltz, we may note a small smile on the face of our heroine.
A smile that says, ‘I’m going back to India!’

Chapter 25

We are in a room. It is large, well-lit and airy. Along one side of this room are a series of tall windows. They look out over a stunning cityscape of minarets, temples and crowded streets. Beyond that runs a large muddy river.
Stood by one of these windows is a lady. She is exquisitely dressed in the fashions of the day and she looks out over that enthralling city. As we move closer to her, we can see that her age is not great, perhaps thirty, perhaps a little more. Definitely not yet forty. She is decidedly pretty in her features, though what draws our attention is her waist, which can not be much larger than thirteen inches in circumference. Why, one feels that one could encircle it with one’s hands, it is that tiny!
The lady sighs, and turns away from the window, walking towards a high-backed chair at the opposite end of the room. She takes tiny steps and seems to take an age as she glides gracefully across that polished marble floor. She sits elegantly at the chair, hardly seeming to bend at all in the middle and picks up a pen from the desk in front of the chair. She dips the pen in an adjacent inkpot and proceeds to write.
This elegant woman is no other than Lady Smythe-Hetherington, a member of one of the oldest established families in England and wife of Sir Andrew Smythe, Her Majesty’s Governor to the Indian Empire, the foremost representative of the Empress in the Jewel in the Crown. Smythe is a remarkable gentleman, the youngest Governor in the Indian Empire’s history, and a man of great wit, charm and diplomatic ability. His wife is no less astounding. A renowned beauty amongst beauties, famed throughout Her Majesty’s Dominions for her excellent taste in clothes, impeccable manners and ability as a hostess.
It was she who got the Governor where he is today some whisper. Such rumours are scandalous of course, although it is undoubtedly true that she never did his promotion prospects any harm, and that it was her family’s influence that got him moved from Mumbai to the seat of power, Delhi. Despite the outward affluence, however, it has not all been wine and roses for our once young heroine. She never married Andrew Smythe for love and it soon became clear that he was not a particularly lovable, or even likable gent. Despite the charm at conferences and parties, in his private life he was a career obsessed bore whose interest in his young and pretty wife was not great. In fact, it was virtually non-existent, save for regular unwanted visits to her chamber in the evening, and an annoying obsession with her waist.
It soon turned out that Andrew Smythe, like virtually all the other attendees at the la Maison des Poupees Ball, had been drawn there primarily due to a corset fetish. He loved tight-laced ladies and desired a wife that he could lace to his heart’s content. Consequently, she never had been able to loosen her excruciating corsets, nor for that matter, lower her heels or collars. The crinoline had gone with time however, a victim of the change in fashion tastes, but her present large bustle was no less restricting.
Arabella however had got used to it all. After all, she had not been that unfortunate. She still kept in regular mail contact with Rebecca Ross, Tatiana Goncharova, Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Hartley from la Maison des Poupees. All four had ended up with men who were tight-lacing fetishists, and none had found the freedom that they desired. Tatiana was now Countess Serebryakovaya, a leading society lady in Saint Petersburg. Her husband, as well as being obsessed with corsets, also had a thing for high heels, and according to her letters, would not allow her to wear anything under eight inches. Arabella shuddered at the thought, that would mean continually standing on one’s toes, and walking would be almost an impossibility. Consequently, the Countess rarely left the house except for parties.
Lady Ross, who was now of course, Lady Machin was presently residing in her husband’s home in Nottinghamshire, and was also a society beauty. Lord Machin was well-known as a Romeo and these days he rarely saw his wife, leaving her alone whilst he went on frequent ‘business’ trips to London or Paris.
Of all the girls, Emily Dickinson had perhaps fared best. She’d married an obnoxious, elderly Dutch banker named van den Ouden, who died less than a year after their marriage, (reportedly due to over-exerting himself in the bed chamber, a scurrilous, contemptible and completely untrue rumour of course). Mrs Emily van den Ouden had simply pocketed the money and left for the south of France where she now enjoys the freedom that was so long denied to her; and is reported to be the lover of an Italian Duke, (another terrible lie).
Perhaps the saddest tale of all is that of poor, shy Elizabeth Hartley. With a constitution like hers, what she needed was a loving, caring young gentleman who would give her the confidence and support that she so badly craved. Unfortunately, as is often the case in this cruel world, she received much the opposite. Her husband, the Earl of Portland soon took her to his estate in Cornwall where she embarked upon a life of misery. He was obsessed with restricting and dominating his poor wife in every way possible, and not only kept her corseted as tightly as ever, but masked as she was in la Maison des Poupees and tethered throughout the daylight hours to a slide wire system which confines her to the west wing of the house.
At night she is gagged and shackled whilst he has his way with her. Indeed, Elizabeth’s lot is truly a sad one, and we must truly thank God that she has never given that hateful man children, as their lives would doubtless be as terrible.
No, Arabella did not do so badly. She lives in the India she loves, and to be truthful, has developed quite a liking for the world of fashion into which she has been forced. What’s more, her husband’s inattention gives her time to pursue her own life, and la Maison des Poupees gave her the tools and the direction in which to do it. Throughout those countless nights that she spent unable to sleep in her bed, tortured by her corset and mono-glove, she turned to stories, tales of love, revenge, adventure, treasure, animals and princesses. That love has not deserted her. What most do not know is that Lady Smythe-Hetherington, wife of the Governor and lady of distinction, is also Justine Lavok, famous author of children’s stories beloved by youth all over the English-speaking world and beyond.
And that’s what she’s doing now, writing the latest in the series of books detailing the exploits of Arthur, the Adventurous Hedgehog.
Unfortunately, Arabella, Governess, Lady of Fashion and Justine doll of yore, is suffering from something today which plagues us all: a serious case of writer’s block. Wearily she sighs as much as her restrictive stays allow, rises and walks to the window once more. She looks out upon the crowded streets of Delhi and thinks back to her childhood, a childhood of freedom when she roamed those very streets and talked to innumerable hawkers, pilgrims and merchants. But alas, that freedom has been taken away from her and will never return. Tears fall slowly down her powered cheeks, disturbing the immaculately applied make-up.
Our heroine takes out a silken handkerchief and wipes those tears away. She then moves away from the window and back to the world of Arthur the Hedgehog.

FINIS